


You For Me, Me For You

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Crossdressing, Feminine Sam, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Road Trips, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8925403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Sam's always been a little different from Dean and John. He's not as masculine, for one thing. Dean finds out that Sam likes dressing like a girl sometimes, not even sexually, it's just a part of his identity. Dean makes it a goal to be there for Sam as he grows up, supporting him, and doing his best to hide his true feelings. Only Sam's all fucked up when he comes back from Stanford, closed off and hiding behind a facade. Dean works hard to help Sam feel safe again, feel comfortable, and things seem to be looking up, only for it to be all fucked over when Sam kisses him while delirious with the flu. They escape to Bobby's to figure shit out. Slow burn, set in season one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavishsqualor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/gifts).



> This is for the Spn J2 Xmas Exchange, I hope you like it, Lavishsqualor <3

_ Now _

 

Dean's been back on the road with Sam for just about two months, and he keeps waiting for something to happen.

 

It's like when you adopt a traumatized dog from the shelter. You know they've been through shit, right? So you give 'em affection, but space, too. You wait for them to stop jumping every time a door closes. Soon enough, the dog warms up to you, trusts you, and relaxes. Lets that tongue wag, all that good shit.

 

But if Sam's the dog then he never got past the jumping when a door closes part. And Dean gets it, okay? The shit with Jessica was absolutely traumatizing. Top-tier fucked up. Hell, the very same thing drove their dad into rampant alcoholism and a lifelong mission that'll pretty much only end bloody. 

 

Sam's just not settling in. He's not relaxing. Dean knows he doesn't mean it personally, but it hurts. There. He admitted it to himself. Dean is hurt. Because he'd grown up believing he was the only person Sam could really trust, the only person Sam was his honest-to-god actual self around. So the fact that Sam isn't opening up to Dean feels a little like a sharp cut every time Sam drops his eyes to the floor or says he's fine.

 

He's not completely closed off, though, not at all. He still whispers about Dad and Jess in that desperate, raspy, choked off voice, still gets red eyes when cases don't end right. He confides in Dean, pushes Dean to talk, and from the outside, Dean guesses Sam'd look normal.

 

But Dean knows Sam. He knows Sam, goddammit. And Sam's revealing just enough to lull Dean into security, into Dean believing Sam's trusting him with everything. It's obvious he's not, though, or did Sam block out their entire childhood? Does Sam think Dean forgot?

 

How could he fucking forget? 

  
  


_ 1998 _

 

Dean can always tell when something's fucking with Sam. He's attuned to Sam's frequency in a way no one else has ever been, and certainly not their dad. It seems like every inch Sam gains and every pound of muscle added makes him even more bitter around their father, makes him shut John out that much more.

 

Dean's always been terrified Sam would do the same to him, but hey, so far so good.

 

Until now, that is. Now, something's bugging Sam, and instead of brooding for a day or so before confessing it all to Dean on a rickety motel bed, Sam's keeping it bottled up. Dean's always wanted Sam to take after him and Dad more, yeah, but not like this, shit. He's hoping (as shitty as it makes him sound) that Sam's dam is gonna burst sometime soon and he'll tell Dean everything. Then, Dean can help. Then, it'll all be alright. Hopefully.

 

Speak of the devil. Dean hears the front door slam shut. He looks down at his watch, and yep, right on time. It's around four so Sam's finally home from whatever extracurricular he's picked up at his latest school. Usually Dean tries to encourage the stuff, 'cause Sam's a geek and he'll get withdrawn if he can't let that shit out somehow, even though Dad hates it, but this time, man. It's probably irrational, but this time it feels like Sam chose an hour-long after school club just to spend more time away from home. 

 

Dean sets down the Playboy mag he’d been aimlessly flipping through and stands up, stretching his arms above his head and bending them at the elbow. He doesn't hear much movement coming from the main area of the suite, so he moves down the hall and into the kitchenette to check up on the kid. Sam's got his back to him. He's standing at the stove, dumping a can of Campbell's into a pot. 

 

Dean sighs to let his presence known and wanders over to his little brother. "Hey, Sammy," he greets, slapping Sam on the shoulder before opening up the fridge. He ducks down and peers inside, looking for a can of beer. Fuck, all out. He's not really sure what Dad's up to right now, but he isn't home. He hopes he's on a beer run. Dean closes the fridge and turns to leans against it. He crosses his arms and peers at Sam, who's got his head dropped so his bangs cover his eyes. "Anything exciting happen at school today?"

 

"Not really," Sam shrugs, flicking his head to move a lock of hair out of his eyes. His bony frickin' back is all tense. Dean can tell even through Sam's baggy hoodie. He's watching the soup like it's something interesting. He didn't even correct Dean with an "it's Sam" when Dean called him Sammy.

 

Dean steps closer, trying to sniff out the cause of Sam's agitation and sullenness over the smell of chicken noodle. "You wanna watch a movie?" he asks, utilizing his favorite olive branch. "I think we've still got Godzilla lying around somewhere."

 

Sam finally looks at him for a fraction of a second, and it's with an eyeroll. He turns back to the soup and scoffs. "We've watched that so many times that I'm pretty sure that gorilla is burned into the back of my eyelids."

 

"Hey, could be worse," Dean says. "At least it's not the Blob."

 

Sam doesn't reply. He turns the burner off and reaches up, grabbing one of their few precious bowls from the highest shelf. It always fucks with Dean's head to see how tall Sam is now. He must have two inches on Dean, not that he'd ever attempt to prove it. In his heart Sam will always be four-eleven. 

 

Sam pours himself a bowl of soup and puts it in the crook of his elbow. He brushes past Dean and grabs his backpack, stuffed to the brim with bullshit, but Sam lifts it like it's nothing. Sam gives him a neutral look. "I'm gonna work on homework, alright?" he says. "I need to focus."

 

He doesn't need to spell it out for Dean. The "fuck off" is pretty polite but glaringly obvious. "'Kay," Dean says, trying not to sound too disappointed. Sam moves down the hall and into the bedroom. 

 

Dean sits on the couch, holding the remote, but he doesn't turn the T.V. on. He begs his brain not to wallow in nostalgia but it's already too late for that. 

 

Dean is so fucking screwed. Seven ways from Sunday. Deadly. Every kind of screwed, really. He has a conspiracy theory about Sam's distance but to even voice it to himself is dangerous. He's gonna be the one to goddamn explode if he doesn't, though. 

 

Dean still goes out with girls, still brings them home to keep up the pretense, but he's worried Sam's got him all found out. After all, Sam reads him just as well as Dean reads him, maybe even better. Sam had a brief flirtation with psychology, and even managed to successfully apply it to a few hunts, and now it feels like Sam can probe out Dean's every insecurity, draw his character flaws back to house fires and loneliness and all that bullshit.

 

If Sam can read him, then maybe he can read how Dean's body language has changed with the girls he dates. Maybe he can read that Dean still likes sex (who doesn't?) but that it goes no further anymore. Dean keeps them at arm's length. All Sam has to suss out is why and Dean's entire world will fall apart.

 

'Cause Dean can never think about it for more than five minutes without wanting to die from shame in the biggest "where-did-I-go-wrong" sense, but goddamn, he thinks he might be into Sammy.

 

"Into" is a garbage way to put it. It undermines what lingers within Dean. It's not just--it's not like Dean eyes up Sam, sees him as sex on legs, fuck no, he's still an awkward little bastard, but there's something there. Something more than brotherly. Dean just has this--this need. A compulsion. It's written into his code to protect Sammy, to save him, to help him, to care for him. Somewhere along the line he got a glitch or something because now his brain enters homicide mode if anyone looks at Sam with intent. He doesn't even want to let anyone else think about Sam. Sam is too good for anyone else. Hell, Sam is too good for him. 

 

He's smarter than anyone Dean's ever known. He's bright, curious, and when he's in a good mood, he's fucking hilarious. He's so stupidly passionate that the loss of even a pet on a hunt guts him to his very core. He's not made for this life. He's made for something bigger, something better, something beautiful. He's a better man and a better human being than anyone Dean knows. He shouldn't be fucking real. The same life, the same world that shaped John into a withdrawn, violent man, and Dean into a paranoid, hurt boy, somehow created Sam. Somehow they did something right. It hurts Dean to think about Sam sometimes, 'cause man. Sam is destined for more, but Dean isn't. And Dean's selfish enough that he couldn't bear to lose Sam. He's selfish enough to keep Sam caged just so he can admire him when the world would benefit endlessly from Sam's shine.

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. And Sam. Sam is bothered by something and Dean's first instinct is to kill whatever it is. Dean wants more than anything for Sam to let him in again. It was only a few months ago that Sam was sliding into his bed and melding into Dean's space, whispering about his nightmares. It made Dean feel like he had a purpose, then, during all those dark nights. His purpose was to whisper. To comfort Sam. To do anything he could.

 

He can't stop now. He's got to do something before it's too late. 

 

Dean stands up, decision made. He drops the remote back onto the couch and looks down the hall, frowning and biting his lip. The bedroom door's closed, a rule broken, a request for privacy. 

 

Fuck it.

 

Dean moves forward, resolve growing with each step on the carpet. He knocks on the door once. "Sammy," he calls, and pushes the door open anyway. He freezes under the doorframe, eyes locked with Sam's.

Sam's mouth drops open. He's in his boxers, his jeans in a pool at his feet. There's a pleated blue skirt hanging from his bunched-up fist. Other girly clothes litter the floor around him, and they're not sexual, not shitty polyester "schoolgirl" outfits or anything like that, just... soft pink blouses, some unremarkable cotton panties, a purple hoodie, stuff like that. A zip bag that even Dean knows is meant fo makeup sits next to the mess. It's then that Dean realizes Sam's eyes are darker with eyeliner, his cheeks pinker, but only barely, and his lips so shiny.

 

Dean's mind goes from a whirlwind to absolutely nothing. He kind of wants to crack a joke, but knows better than to do that. It's a little sexy, too, but Dean buries that one deep. 

 

They're locked in a staring contest until Sam breaks, bending over and dropping the skirt, tripping and fumbling to get his pants up and the belt tightened. His cheeks are even redder under the blush. His eyes, too.

 

It's definitely not the time for jokes. The more Dean looks, the more it's not a sexual situation. Well, at least not all the way. Sam doesn't have a boner. And he's really fucking upset. If he just got off on the shit then he'd be mortified and embarrassed, but not close to tears like he is now.

 

Dean's concern for Sam skyrockets. "Sammy," he says, stepping into the room.

 

"Just don't," Sam snaps at him, nostrils flaring. "Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear it. You wouldn't understand."

 

Sam bends down, sweeping all the clothes into his shaking arms and stuffing them into his backpack with angry little punches of his fists. He reaches up and mashes his knuckles against his cheek, violently rubbing away a tear that made his makeup smear.

 

"Give me a chance," Dean says, for lack of any better ideas. He moves into the room, picking his steps carefully like each piece of clothing is a mine. 

 

When Sam zips up the backpack, he meets Dean's eyes again for the first time since Dean opened the door. He's a mess, no other way to describe it. "Please don't tell Dad," Sam croaks, his voice made higher in desperation. And so, so small.

 

"Hey," Dean murmurs, determined to handle this sensitively. In a way, it's a good thing--this must be why Sam was pulling back, not because he found out Dean's secret and thinks he's disgusting.

 

No, Dean found out Sam's secret--and Sam must think Dean's thoughts follow the same train.

 

"I promise I won't tell him," Dean vows. He reaches forward to put a hand around Sam's wrist but Sam backs up, almost to the wall. His eyes are set on the ground and he sniffs loudly. "Sam, jesus, it's okay!"

 

Sam's head stays lowered, but his eyes flick up to peer at Dean and read him for honesty. Dean looks right back, confident Sam will deduce that he means every word. 

 

He's beautiful like this, too, as fucked up as it is. Dean gets a niggling feeling that this is the real Sam he's seeing--or at least a real part of him that had been hidden before. The smeared makeup is still breathtaking on his pale face. Sam's always had elegant eyebrows and striking eyes, with the shape of a cat or a fox, and like this, the unique shape is only further highlighted.

 

"Honestly, it's a relief," Dean says, and Sam gives him an "are-you-crazy" look. 

 

Dean shrugs. "You've been all moody, dude. I was worried you were having problems at school or something. If this is what's been freaking you out, then seriously, it's fine. I'm not mad or whatever. You're allowed to do whatever you want."

 

"It's not a kinky thing," Sam huffs, crossing his arms.

 

"Never said it was," Dean says. "It's cool if it is, though. You wouldn't believe the things I wore for Rhonda Hurley, man. Gotta say, though, very soft."

 

It succeeds in shocking a laugh out of Sam, dimples and all. Dean feels lighter for the sight of them. Sam shakes his head, sobering quickly. He falls onto the bed, sitting in the edge with his hands twisting themselves in circles in his lap. Dean sits next to him and squeezes Sam's shoulder. 

 

"Please don't laugh," Sam mutters, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. He smiles softly, in that sort of self-hating way Dean loathes to see on Sam's features.

 

"Not laughing. Not even considering the blackmail properties, I swear," Dean says, dropping his hand from Sam's shoulder.

 

"I just..." Sam exhales loudly through his nose, his eyes going unfocused as he stares at his backpack and the peek of pink fabric caught through the zipper. "I like... feeling... pretty. I'm not like you or Dad. I don't really care for the whole macho guy stuff. I don't wanna be a girl, not really... but I don't always feel like a man."

 

Dean lets those comments simmer for a moment as he thinks them over. Sam keeps sneaking peeks at him, gauging his reaction. Dean finally nods, opening his mouth to speak. He takes a last teeny fraction of a fraction of a second to hope to hell what he says is the right thing. "Honestly, dude... I've never seen you as macho or any of that, and you can punch me for all the insults about being girly, okay? If I'd'a known, I wouldn't have said shit like that. I'd rather have a happy Sam in a dress than a sulky one in Carhartt clothes, got it? I just, uh, I don't think Dad will get it the same way. He's old, and, uh, traditional. So maybe keep it between us for now."

 

"I wasn't gonna tell him," Sam scoffs, elbowing Dean in the side. "The veins in his head would burst."

 

Sam swallows. "Uh... thank you, I think," he continues, a little more quietly, "I just don't want you to think I'm a freak, alright? I'm not the only guy like this. I know I'm not."

 

The last comment sounds lonely enough that Dean quickly develops a plan to maybe "find" a hunt in California or something, somewhere close to San Francisco. Dean knows for certain a place like that or a school near there would be a helluva lot more understanding of Sam than a public high school in Buttfucknowhere, Indiana. Dean mentally adds "acceptance" onto the list of things Sam deserves, and makes it a personal goal to be that kind of support for Sam. Feminine things and all. 

 

"You're not," Dean agrees the moment he gets out of his own thoughts. "I know Dad doesn't think so, but... you don't have to be just like us, man. Just be Sam. Don't even think about if who Sam is someone other people would like. It just matters if you like you."

 

Sam smiles at him, his shoulders finally slumping back. "You know, for a massive jerk, sometimes you make a surprising amount of sense."

 

"Bitch," Dean says, and their smiles grow in unison. 

 

That day was the turning point of all turning points. Sam came straight to Dean with every problem after that, no matter how inconsequential. If he was having a really good day, he became a rambly little prick, but Dean would rather cut off his own leg than tell Sam to shut up. It's the wordiest he's been in years, or hell, ever. The only shit thing to come of it is that Sam seems to have given up on any attempts to compromise with John. It’s like the love is sapping away from both of them, and Dean is the one trying to salvage things, but it is about as productive as trying to empty a tub full of bathwater with just an index finger flicking droplets away. 

 

It brings a new problem out of the woodwork. If Sam were to grow disenchanted with their father and their lives enough, Dean's love may not be nearly enough to keep him around. 

 

Still, Dean doesn't think about it often. One day at a time. Things are getting better with Sam, anyway. Dean's taken to sneaking to every Goodwill in town when Dad's not around. He can tell if things are Sam's size just by eyeballing them, so it doesn't take him long to navigate to the girls' section and pick out things he thinks Sam would like.

 

He gets lots of adoring smiles from the old lady cashiers. "For someone special?" they always ask, and Dean always nods and says "yes, ma'am." 

 

Sometimes Sam will sit on the toilet seat and let Dean try his hand at the makeup thing. Dean's no artist, but he's always had a steadier hand than Sam. He's good at precision tasks, and creating a tiny wing at the edge of a twitchy eyelid definitely falls into that category. Plus, he gets to stay millimeters away from Sam's face for extended periods of time. Sometimes Sam meets his eyes and smiles and Dean feels like the girl. He'd do fucking anything for the kid, and doing this is helping Sam big time and keeping them close.

 

Dean will do everything in his power to keep Sam around, to keep him from leaving.

  
  


_ Now _

 

Nothing kills Dean more than feeling like he's losing Sam. He feels like it's a fucking awful cycle that he's doomed to repeat for the rest of his life--grow something with Sam, lose him, and get him back only to lose him all over again. It's fucking with all of Dean's plans. This was supposed to be a good thing for both of them. Sam needs to get the hell away from California and blood-stickied memories, and well. Dean's selfish. He just needs Sam, period. Their time on the road together should've been the mother of all bonding exercises. Sam's even coming around with the whole Dad thing, and Dean dreams every night of finding Dad, of the three of them being together, being happy, being a family again. 

 

But the gold stitching that keeps it all together is most certainly Sam and Sam is quietly and calmly falling the fuck apart. 

 

Dean hopes to god all of his progress isn't undone, that all of Sam's growth and self-acceptance weren't burned away with the fire. Sam doesn't speak of Stanford, but Dean imagines it to be a safe, progressive haven, where Sam got to experiment and figure things out some more, and Dean wants to make the Impala feel the same way for Sam. Baby is home, but Sam's long legs get restless faster than they used to, the lines on his forehead growing with each mile driven.

 

They're on the road right now, actually. Sam's been tired for a day or so, so the radio's on instead of the usual cassette deal, set to some generic soft rock station as a lullaby for little brother. The newspaper with their latest prospective hunt written out on page C4 is spread across Sam's lap like a makeshift blanket. The AC's on low, so the corner of the page lifts and wavers, catching Dean's attention in his periphery as he coasts down the Interstate 80. 

 

They're cruising across the near-center of the 'States, and out here, there's not a hill to be seen. It's all flat, yellowed land, stuck between the oranges of Autumn and the stark browns of Winter, so it looks kinda crap, but Dean loves it anyway. He's always admired those classic red barns that stick out of the farmland, a bastion of perseverance in an endlessly broad land. The highway continues without bend for miles ahead, and something about the straight black tarmac cutting through the land of harvested crops makes Dean's heart sing. This is what home is to him, not a two-story colonial on a stifling residential street. 

 

Moments like these where Dean is more or less completely alone with his thoughts can range from therapeutic to depressing as all hell. Dean knows his mind could give even the toughest therapist a run for their money. Right now, though, he seems to be in safe territory. There's a tinge of sadness, yeah, but that's been his constant companion ever since he noticed the way Sam's face falls the moment he thinks no one is looking at him. Speaking of. He might as well take advantage of the thinking time and try to come up with the best way to talk to Sam without receiving a glare or a bitchface in response.

 

Dean sighs, long and loud. Sam makes a sleep-murmur, his nose scrunching up as he dreams. The dreams don't seem to be too unpleasant right now, so Dean doesn't worry about having to wake Sam up. It's not often the kid gets uninterrupted sleep.

 

So Dean ponders. He watches the mileometer eat up the plains ahead of them and points the car in the direction of Iowa, where the latest line of bodies lies. 

 

All it takes is the cessation of movement when Dean takes an exit and pulls into a gas station to wake Sam up. Dean flips through his wallet looking for a credit card that won't get declined while Sam groans, stretching out to the best of his ability, his boots thumping against the carpeted footwell. Sam squints at him and Dean looks over him unashamedly, making sure he's in an okay state of mind. No words need to be shared.

 

Dean finds the right card and gets out of the Impala. He stretches his legs, listening to his knees crack. He's too young for his joints to be giving him this much grief. While Dean fills up the car, Sam slips out of the passenger seat. He's sort of hunched, with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, but that's normal Sammy demeanor nowadays. He doesn't do much, save for leaning against the car and slowly blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

 

Dean puts the nozzle into the gas compartment and starts filling up the car. The ca-clunk and noise of liquid moving through rubber is all too familiar, and he settles in for the brief wait, leaning against the car about a foot away from Sam. He peers down the road with the pretense of checking out traffic for the rest of their journey, but spends most of his time sneaking glances at Sam. 

 

Sam yawns and tilts his nose up, closing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. It's just about cold enough for his breath to puff out in front of him and roll away into the air. He's got a few lines under his eyes and Dean's grateful this hunt is relatively straightforward, a salt-and-burn, most definitely. Sam needs a break, and Dean could use one, too, and this is about as close to a vacation as they're likely to get. 

 

It's been getting cloudier as they've been driving, and as they get everything they need from the tiny little Food Mart (including a big bag of Peanut M&Ms), the first few daring drops of rain make their descent from the cloud bellies. 

 

When everything's all set to go, Sam's looking a little more coherent. He gets back into the car at the same time as Dean and their doors close in sync. Sam puts the grocery bag between his feet and leans back. He opens the glove compartment and takes out the shoebox of cassettes. "Alright, your turn," he says, tilting the box so Dean can see the artists written on the spines of the little plastic boxes.

 

It's a formality, really. Dean doesn't even have to look. He's got it memorized. "Creedence Clearwater, third album," he says.

 

Sam has it memorized, too. Dutifully, he takes out Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Green River," sliding it into the tape deck. The first track starts up after a few beats of silence, and Dean puts the key in the ignition in time with the opening bars. 

 

Pulling back onto the road, Dean tosses Sam a grin and gets one in return. That's a good sign. If Sam's in a good mood, maybe sooner is better than later for reaching out to him somehow.

 

Dean pulls out onto the highway and they share some meaningless small talk and banter that Dean forgets moments later. It doesn't take long for them to reach Central Iowa, and they arrive in Colfax with a few hours before sunset to spare. 

 

Main Street is charming in a way that Dean's seen a million times before. Sam seems interested, though, and sits up straighter, bending forward to peer through the dashboard window at all the old historic brick buildings.

 

They pass a diner and Dean points it out. "Feeling hungry?" he asks.

 

Sam shrugs, so Dean finds a parking meter along the street and pulls the Impala into the spot. There aren't many people out and about in a small town like this. As they head into the diner, a bell rings, sounding their arrival. There are a few men in suits sitting with newspapers in booths, and a lone family gathered around a table for dinner. The waitresses are dressed in proper dresses and aprons. 

 

Dean thinks a lot of people would be surprised at how damn easy it is to time travel in the United States. All it takes is a place with a population under five thousand and you can bet your life's savings on the fact there'll be a diner with a jukebox, chrome, and neon lights. 

 

They get seated immediately, and they only need a minute of menu browsing to decide. It's a selection they've chosen from infinitely many times. Dean's always a sucker for a good burger and pie, and Sam always lands on the smallest, blandest thing with the fewest calories. Dean's gonna make sure that most of his fries go to Sam when they get served. Lord knows the kid needs the extra food. 

 

That's another thing Dean worries over that never gets spoken about, but he'll let it lie for now. He's got other things on his mind. 

 

He watches as Sam takes a sip of his icewater, staring out the window. A couple with a dog pass by outside and Sam admires the Golden Retriever. The music is soft enough that Dean can't really discern it, but he's fairly certain it's something he's heard before, something from another era. There's no need to speak up, but even without the cover of a susurrus of a crowded restaurant, he has privacy.

 

"Sammy," he says, injecting a considerable amount of seriousness into his voice. Sam turns away from the window and blinks at him, waiting. 

 

Well, fuck. Dean's mind races for a good way to start this out. Now he knows how Sam feels every time the kid gets those earnest eyebrows goin' on.

 

"Yeah?" Sam says after a considerable amount of time.

 

Dean takes a deep breath. "Lord help me, Sam, but... are you okay?"

 

Sam quirks an eyebrow, taking another microscopic sip of his water. "I mean... I'm getting by, man. You know that."

 

Dean bites his lip. How do you considerately ask your little brother why the hell he's been acting and dressing strictly masculinely since they reunited after four years apart?

 

"Right, right, I know, I know..." Dean trails off, cogs moving in his brain. "You're just different, that's all. From before you left for Stanford. Kinda hard to miss. C'mon, Sammy. I didn't forget."

 

Sam's face shuts down all at once, his expression going from puppy-dog concerned to almost icily neutral. His lips thin imperceptibly. "Like you said," he responds evenly, picking at his napkin, "it's been four years. People change."

 

Dean tries not to react too much to that slap in the face. He resists audibly huffing. "'Course they do, I know I have," he tries again, "but you can't look me in the eye and tell me you're happy like this. What's stopping you, man? You know I don't judge."

 

"Can we drop it?" Sam asks, giving Dean a stiff grin, his eyes sparking with anger. 

 

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but the waitress cockblocks him. He can't be too pissed, though, because she comes bearing gifts, and damn, that burger looks good.

 

The conversation is more or less cancelled for as long as he's got a mouth full of ketchup and onions, but Dean isn't ending the battle there. Not even close.

 

He lets Sam pick aimlessly at a house salad in silence. He pushes the plate of fries over to Sam's side and feels a little better about the day when Sam actually eats most of them.

 

Dean's talking the moment the final piece of burger gets shoved down his trap. He dabs a napkin against his lips, scooting forward so he can get up into Sam's space. The vinyl seating squeaks noisily under his ass. He puts his elbows on the sticky formica and clears his throat. "I'm not pushin', Sammy," he says, and Sam's frowning while munching through lettuce, glaring at him but unable to speak up. "But I know you're not happy. And I know I'm not good at it but... man, I'm here for you, okay? You have be cooped up with me almost twenty-four seven. You might as well talk to me. I know there's shit you're not saying."

 

Sam swallows and takes a sip of water. He pushes the fries and salad away, half uneaten. "It's not that big of a deal," Sam says, jaw ticking. "Let's go."

 

Dean sighs. "Sammy-"

 

Sam effectively cuts him off by getting up. "Bathroom," he says, pushing past the waitress to the back of the diner while Dean pays the bill. 

 

When he comes back, it's back to withdrawn Sammy instead of slightly-smiley Sammy. Great. The drive to the nearest motel is done in silence. Even CCR are done providing soundtrack. Dean goes into the lobby and gets the room key. By the time he comes back, Sam's already at the trunk with two duffels slung across his shoulders. He takes the key from between Dean's fingers and makes his way to the correctly numbered door.

 

Dean shakes his head. He gets his bags just as the rain starts in earnest. In the pre-twilight world of broken concrete and peeling siding, the rain is just the cherry on top. If this is what it looks like when the universe shits on you, then Dean thinks the powers that be must've been given laxatives. 

 

Once inside, Dean drops his things on his bed. Sam's at the other bed, untangling his laptop power cord from a mess of boxers and t-shirts. Dean digs through the bottom of his bag until he finds the carefully tied up plastic bag full of soft clothes. 

 

He tosses the bag onto Sam's duffel. Sam's hands freeze and he slowly puts down the cable. He looks up at Dean with a question in his eyes.

 

"No use in keepin' 'em in my bag," Dean grunts. "You do with 'em what you like." 

 

He only watches long enough to see Sam's long, elegant fingers carefully untie the knot in the plastic before Sam looks inside. Sam's expression goes from open and puzzled to something equally surprised but with a little more heart, something that adds a sheen to his eyes. Sam reties the bag with hands that tremble minutely, akin to the door in the frame every time thunder rumbles, closer and closer.

 

Dean turns away and heads into the bathroom, turning the shower on and letting the rush of water hitting the tiles wash out all of the shit thoughts in his head. 

 

By the time he finishes bathing, his mind is wonderfully blank. Thank god for white noise. He dresses in silence and runs a hand through his hair, peering closely at his reflection in the mirror. He nods to himself and steps out into the room.

 

Sam's sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers and socks. All of his things have been put away except for the plastic bag, which sits by his side. He has a pair of purple fuzzy pajamas and a pair of white panties in his lap.

 

Dean doesn't know if he's allowed to be here right now or if it's too intimate, but by the wobble of Sam's lower lip, he moves forward, sitting on the other side of Sam and crowding into his space. "Hey," he murmurs, reaching up to rub at Sam's back. "Hey, man, it's okay."

 

"No it's not," Sam chokes out, like he can hardly stand to speak. 

 

Dean leans in, Sam's smell doing wonders to calm his anxiety. Even dejected like this, Sam is meant for another world. He's a creature, not like the ones they hunt but more like something pure and otherworldly. Shut up, Dean curses his brain, shut the fuck up and forget about it. 

 

"Why not?" he asks Sam, his hand stilling between Sam's too-bony shoulder blades. 

 

Sam takes as deep a breath as he's able, holding it for a second before it shudders out of him like a dying car's exhaust. "I... it's too fucking hard," Sam whispers. "I can't do it. I can't hold on to that. Not anymore. I need to be more like you, more like Dad."

 

"That's bull," Dean whispers, a violent edge to his voice. Sam sniffs and looks down at the items in his lap. "You're stronger than both of us combined." Sam's responding bitter scoff pushes Dean forward. "Y'are. I mean it. Does it remind you of Jess? Is that the problem?"

 

Sam looks over at him with red, glassy eyes. His adam's apple bobs. "Everything about the person I was reminds me of her," he rasps. "She bought me things, she loved me like this. If I want to kill the thing that got her I have to be different."

 

"That doesn't mean cutting yourself off, closing yourself up," Dean says, instead of the mantra in his head, repeating "what about what I bought you? What about the ways I loved you?" 

 

Dean puts a hand on Sam's leg and Sam turns to face him more fully. "I don't mean this in a bad way, dude, but you were like this before Jessica. You've had this part of you since always. It'd be stupid to kill it. That's just more death in your life. You don't need that. What you need is something to hold onto. Please just be yourself. It's killing you not to. And if you need to... you can hold on to me, too."

 

Silence save for rain and thunder takes over the room, possesses it. Dean can't get a read on anything, doesn't know if he went too far or said the wrong thing. The room closes in, yet also feels like a bubble growing bigger and bigger, and the resulting pop is inevitable. 

 

Sam takes a nightshirt with a low neckline out of the bag. It's one Dean recognizes, one that's well worn and loved and smells of Sam. Sam looks up and gives him a tiny, uncertain smile. "You mind?" he asks, barely audible over the patter of rain against the roof.

 

"Not at all," Dean says, and the smile he gives Sam comes easy. "Don't push it out, Sammy. You don't have to."

 

Sam nods. He's got that look on his face like if he says one more thing it'll all come tumbling out. He stands, clothing in hand, and heads to the bathroom. Dean lets him go.

 

Dean lets out a breath. He's afraid to feel too uplifted about what happened in case it's false, in case it comes crumbling down. He knows the battle is far from over, that it's gonna take a fuck ton of healing and patience for Sam to come out of his shell. They're not there yet, still have miles of woodland yet to traverse, but they're closer. Dean can do this. Dean can help. 

 

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, Dean can hardly breathe. Sam's grown since he left for school, of course he has, but he's still slim and lanky. The clothes rest comfortably on his body. The pajamas aren't sexual at all, and neither is the band of Sam's new underwear sticking out the top, above the bow tied in front of the pants. The blouse is stretched very slightly across Sam's shoulders, but other than that, it still fits him, might be a bit short, but it's still beautiful. The soft grey color matches the bird pattern on the PJs. 

 

He's just. Fuck. He doesn't have to try to be beautiful. Even cooped up in layers of plaid and shapeless jackets, beauty lingers, but like this, it's out in the open, so easy to see. Sam's hair curls around his ears and he's biting his lip, waiting in the door frame. 

 

He's waiting for Dean to speak, or for Dean to stop gawking, fuck, Dean doesn't know. He can't think over how everything Sam is. He's missed this so fucking much, didn't realize the extent of the ache until just now. 

 

"You look great," Dean says, flushing at how hoarse his voice is. "We could get you stuff that fits better, think you gained an inch or two."

 

"This is fine for now," Sam murmurs. The smile he gives Dean is grateful. Dean nods at him and Sam ducks his head, walking into the room. Even his walk is transformed from moments ago--he carries his weight more easily, with a feline, feminine grace, the movement concentrated in his hips. Dean is mesmerized. 

 

"What's the plan for tonight?" Dean asks, mostly to stop himself from being too obvious. If he looks too long, Sam will know. Dean might not get the chance to explain that it's not purely a sexual thing or a fucking kink, that it's just Sam, not objectification, not anything.

 

Dean takes his pistol out to clean, but he ends up looking at the likeness of Sam reflected in the chrome of the butt of the gun. 

 

"Just research, prep stuff," Sam says. "Then police and coroner tomorrow, you think?"

 

"Solid plan," Dean agrees, "and interviews."

 

"'Kay," Sam says, plugging in his laptop and putting it on the pillow. He powers it on and sprawls out on his stomach, feet hanging off the end of the bed. 

 

Dean spares a glance and looks away, face burning. He unloads the gun and begins dissembling it, tongue stuck between his teeth as he works. 

 

Sam makes a noise after a few minutes of working in quiet. "Thank you," he says. "I didn't mean to--I just need time."

 

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "S'okay. It doesn't happen all at once."

 

"No," Sam grins at him, blinking slowly, like a cat, causing Dean's stomach to do flips. "No, it doesn't."

 

\---

 

Dean wakes before Sam, sometime just after sunrise. The world is quiet and mostly blue, the lack of sun leaching color from everything. The only noise around is birdsong and distant cars. The rain must have stopped sometime in the night.

 

He wonders what Sam was like with Jess. It's a question that aches with sympathetic sorrow for Sam but also a violent burn of something Dean hates to name. He's grateful for Jessica, he really is, and knows that she probably saved Sam from himself at Stanford, kept him afloat.  She did for Sammy what Dean had dedicated his life to. And by the microscopic pieces of information about her Dean gleans once in a blue moon, she did it well.

 

Sam called drunkenly a few times, and they exchanged postcards even fewer times than that, but each year away made those connections fewer and further between. Sam was busier, but more than that, he was moving on. He was getting out of the life, and away from Dean. He had Jessica.

 

Fucking hell. Shit. Dean is so going to hell. If the incestuous tendencies weren't enough to seal the deal, being jealous of a god damn murdered woman has to be the whipped cream on the pie of Dean's sins. 

 

If Dean's being perfectly rational, Jess wasn't replacing him. Sam wasn't cutting Dean out of his life. He'd even asked Dean to come along when he ran and Dean had said no. If Sam went to law school, if Sam got a nice job and a house and had little Sambabies running around, Dean would visit. Sam would call. All that jazz. 

 

But that's not what Dean craves. It's not what he needs. The relationship they had before Stanford was so visceral. Dean can't explain it. He was Sam's everything. Maybe it's cruel to want that back, to restrain Sam and hold him close, away from others. Maybe it's cruel to resent Jessica for being close to Sam in ways Dean has only thought about with creamed jeans. She had his trust and Dean wonders if she knew how precious of a gift that was. 

 

Did Sam whisper to her after nightmares, crawl into her space like he meant to bury himself inside her soul? Was Sam comfortable sitting with her in utter silence, for hours, body language telling all?

 

Even as Dean asks himself and fucks with his own head over and over, he knows the answer. Sam loved Jess. Jess loved him. 

 

But she didn't know him. He didn't let her in. And as much as a small, blackened piece of Dean wants to be grateful for that piece of information, he knows it has bleaker implications. Sam was closed off for years. He's grown used to the isolation. Dean has been pushed out. But he wants back in. He wants Sam back. Their childhood is gone but the love doesn't have to be. 

 

Sam's alarm goes off and Dean jumps, his heart racketing up into his throat, pulsing loudly in his ears. He scrubs a hand down his face and looks over to Sam's bed. Sam's still got his face buried in his pillow, nose squished into the fabric. Dead to the world.

 

Okay... very not Sam. The klaxons go off in Dean's head. He stands and wanders over to Sam, peering down at him. It's not the best lighting, but Sam does look a bit pinker. Frowning, Dean lays a hand on Sam's forehead, feather-light. He's very warm but it's difficult to tell if it's fever level. Maybe Sam's just got a cold. He has been sleeping a lot lately. 

 

"Turn that thing off," Sam groans, voice muffled by bedding. Dean lifts his hand and moves to silence the alarm on Sam's phone. He flips the phone shut and backs off, using the pretense of grabbing an outfit from his duffel to keep an eye on Sam and make sure he's truly with the living.

 

Sam hauls himself upright like there's a pressure on his chest and he's a sideways Atlas. He runs a hand through the ragged mop of curls on his head, squinting at the world, nose wrinkling up. He coughs twice.

 

"You coming down with something?" Dean asks, pulling his fake fed suit out of the bag at the end of his bed while Sam pushes the comforter away from his body and turns, feet planting solidly on the questionable motel carpet. 

 

"Nguh," Sam says, which is caveman for "screw you." "Just tired."

 

"Okay," Dean says, raising his eyebrows. He pulls down his boxers and steps into a new pair, tossing a blue tie onto the bed. Sam moves past him and lumbers over to his own bag. Instead of bending down to rifle through it, he grabs it by the strap and tosses it onto the bed. It takes him awhile to remember what he’s looking for and to pull out his own suit. 

 

Despite a few more minor bumps in their morning routine, like Sam using Dean's toothbrush, Sam seems to get a clearer head with each minute. By the time they're in the car heading to the police station, his eyes are wide and coherent. 

 

Dean loves the look in Sammy's eyes when he gets all smart and critical and shit. When Sam pieces together parts of a puzzle or rapid-fire calculates things in his mind, his eyes become cogs, visible only to Dean. They show Sam's fast thought process, his genius. It's when his eyes look the most alive. 

 

Sam's got the beginning traces of that going on. He's formulating a way to grill the cops, a way to phrase things to get the right kind of information, Dean knows it. He doesn't even have to ask. This time, they'll go by Sam's lead. If the sun stays out, the hunt may even be over in a day's time, maybe two. It's a good feeling.

 

Dean pulls into the parking lot and finds a space pretty easily. It's not a busy day in a not-big town and the cops'll probably be happy to have something happening in their precinct, even if it does have to do with the two murders. With Sam's puppy dog eyes, they'll be spilling right away, grateful to talk to the FBI about the whacko circumstances of the recent deaths. 

 

"Okay, we-" Sam starts, but he ends up cutting himself off with a coughing fit. It gets bad enough that he curls up on himself, coughing into the crook of his elbow, the force of his coughs wracking his entire body. 

 

"Hey, hey..." Dean says uselessly, leaning into Sam's space and trying to catch his eye. "Do we need to come back later?"

 

"N-no," Sam manages between coughs, looking at Dean with wide eyes. The fit finally tapers off. Dean turns and hauls himself over the seat far enough to reach the water bottle rolling around on the back seat floor. He slips back into the driver's seat and hands Sam the bottle. Sam thanks him with his eyes and takes a long swig. He closes his eyes and pants, catching his breath. 

 

"Probably a cold," Sam allows, "but I'm good. Let's go." He wipes his mouth on his suit cuff and has his door open and his legs out of the car before Dean can open his mouth to form a protest. 

 

Dean shakes his head and follows after Sam into the precinct, but he keeps one eye on Sam throughout the entire interview with the cops and the receival of case files. 

 

Things go swimmingly enough for Dean to abandon his worry for the time being. "So," he says, clapping his hands together as they slip out of the building together and into the cool mid morning air, "pretty straightforward, right? Only a hunter would skin and string up people like that, and in McElroy's old cabin, for god's sake. I say we go for a salt and burn, no interviews needed."

 

"I still think we should be precautious," Sam says, sniffling and not-so-discretely wiping his running nose on his hand. "We gotta check the bodies to confirm it's not something else. There's a witness, too, Dean... you know we have to cover all the bases."

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Dean sighs, trying not to look too put out.

 

Sam lets out a single laugh and looks over at him, shaking his head, dimples growing with each moment. "You just want to burn shit," he says, no heat behind his words.

 

"You got me," Dean says, and man, he'll do anything Sam wants if he keeps smiling at Dean like this. "Plan?"

 

"Split up, save time?" Sam offers. "Someone goes to the coroner, someone to the victim?"

 

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Dean says, "I'm off to console the grieving attractive woman."

 

"That would be the coroner," Sam says, "the witness is a fifteen year old boy."

 

Dean snaps his fingers. "Just keeping you on your toes," he says, moving around the Impala to the driver's side. Sam scoffs at him. They slide into the car at the same time, suspension squeaking under the added weight. 

 

"So, where's the victim's place?" Dean asks, looking over his shoulder as he backs the car out of the space. 

 

Sam flips open the case file. He brings a finger to his tongue before flipping the pages, eyes racing back and forth as he skims the information. He stops on the fourth page. "Whitetail Road," he says, "I think we passed that on the way in."

 

"Got it," Dean says, turning left at the intersection. "Keep your phone on. I'll pick you up in an hour."

 

Sam hums his assent and leans back, closing his eyes. The worry- that Dean knows is obsessive and overbearing, but he can't help it- slowly returns, like ice slowly crawling through his bones on a winter's night. 

 

Still, no need to call for an ambulance yet. Maybe after this hunt Dean'll find some menial task for them to do at Bobby's so that Sam can get a chance to get over what Dean is starting to suspect could be the flu. 

 

It starts honest-to-god snowing as they reach the more rural fringes of the town. Friggin' November Midwest weather bullshit. He pulls in front of a long dirt drive, next to which is a mailbox with the address from the casefile. Mailbox is a stretch, really--it's a tin box on a dull wooden stake. 

 

Sam gets out of the car. "See you soon," he says, "send me a pic of the body."

 

"Will do," Dean replies. At the last minute, he adds, "be safe."

 

Sam nods at him like a patient schoolteacher at a kindergartener before closing the door and heading down the driveway. Dean lingers for a moment, engine idling, only turning around and heading back into town when Sam turns to give him an exasperated look, fake fed blazer billowing wildly in the wintry wind. 

 

The coroner is definitely attractive, but without Sam around, he doesn't even bother pretending to flirt. All work, no play. Luckily she doesn't seem to interested, either. In him, that is. She's just as animated as Sam when it comes to autopsies. 

 

There's nothing suspicious about the bodies besides the whole skinning and stringing up thing. No heart missing, no puncture wounds, no ectoplasmic goop, nada. Dean sends Sam a pic of the body with the caption "definitely a ghost, matches Elroy's M.O. Time to gank the sucker."

 

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and listens to the coroner ramble about skinning techniques used on deer in the 1980s. He has to interrupt her when his phone starts chirping in his pocket. He slips it out of his pants and flips it open, holding it to his ear. He turns to give himself a little bit of privacy. The coroner understands and goes back to her desk. Dean raises his hand in thanks. "Sammy?"

 

There's silence on the other end, save for crackly white sound. After a moment, someone clears their throat. It's high pitched.

 

Dean stops himself from grinding his teeth. "Who is this?" he demands. "What's going on?"

 

"Um," a pubescent male voice says. "Are you Agent Moon's partner?"

 

"Yeah," Dean says, "who is this?"

 

"I'm Anthony," the voice squeaks, and yeah, that was the witness's name, wasn't it? "Anthony Boyd. I was home alone when Agent Moon- Sam- came over. It was fine for awhile but he got really dizzy. He's laying down now. He said to call you."

 

Dean swears under his breath. "Thanks for telling me, Anthony," he says. "I'm on my way."

 

Anthony starts to say something else, but Dean silences him by ending the call. He walks over to the coroner and quickly thanks her for time before hauling ass, running down the tiled hall past a puzzled lab assistant. Once in the car, he's gunning it back across town to the Boyd household. 

 

He does a shit job at parking but it doesn't fucking matter 'cause no one's around out here and Sam is in trouble. He runs all the way up the driveway and pushes through the screen door. It clatters loudly in its frame as he storms in. The main door was left open for him.

 

A moppy-haired blond boy jumps up from the couch when he sees Dean in the entryway. 

 

"Where is he?" Dean asks.

 

Anthony fumbles for a moment, blinking, clearly intimidated. Dean sighs, hunching down a bit. He tries to appear less murderous, but it takes effort. "I'm just worried about him," he explains to the boy.

 

Anthony nods. "He's in my bedroom," he says. "I thought he'd be comfortable there."

 

"Thank you," Dean says, "that's real nice of you. Can you take me to him?"

 

Anthony nods again, looking more sure of himself this time. He jerks his head toward the hall. "C'mon," he says, leading the way.

 

Dean follows behind, and the fourteen or fifteen seconds it takes to walk down the short, claustrophobic hall are complete agony. Anthony's door is open just a crack, and Dean can see a white button down shirt on a bed through the gap.

 

Anthony opens the door and holds it open for Dean, ducking his head, cheeks and neck turning red. "It's, uh, it's dirty, and stuff."

 

Despite Anthony's embarrassment, it's nothing new to Dean. Piles of boxers on the floor, check, trash basket piled high with used tissues, check, playboy centerfolds on the nightstand, car posters on the walls, outdated seventies furniture, check, check, check. He spares the room only an initial cursory glance before parking his ass on the edge of the mattress, right by Sam's hip. Sammy's blazer is hung over the bedpost and his shoes are at the base of the bed. He's out cold.

 

Something else that no one knows about Sam is that he doesn't just have trouble sleeping from nightmares, he's also a picky sleeper. He outright refuses to sleep in the worst of the motel beds, instead using a sleeping bag or going out to the Impala. He can't sleep with strangers around, which isn't the best trait in a hunter, but hey. They all have their things. This is just Sam's. So seeing Sam drooling on a teenage stranger's pillow next to dirty PJs out in the middle of nowhere is definitely not a good sign. 

 

Damn it. He knew Sam was sick, he fucking knew it. And yet he let it go on this long just 'cause Sam wasn't actively throwing up blood. Dean sighs. He turns to look at Anthony, lurking in the doorway. "Hey, I know it's your place 'n' all, but would you mind giving us a minute?"

 

Anthony blinks rapidly. "Sure," he says, voice cracking. "I'll just be in the living room."

 

"Thank you," Dean says, getting up and closing the door behind Anthony.

 

He moves back to the bed and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, shaking him gently. He's burning up. Jesus, Sam's condition got worse in a heartbeat. Dean hopes to god it isn't some supernatural curse bullshit. Things are complicated enough as it is in their lives.

 

When Sam doesn't stir under his ministrations, he shakes him harder, leaning in close. "Sammy," he says, "hey, Sammy, wake up." His hands go up to Sam's temples, fingers pushing into Sam's soft hair.

 

Sam makes a quiet, sleepy noise, like a kitten, turning his head toward Dean. Dean shakes him again, getting him all the way there. Sam looks up at him through narrowed eyes, blinking slowly as he fights his way to consciousness. 

 

Sam does a full body stretch, eyes getting wider. He coughs weakly, more like a short wheeze. "D'n?"

 

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean murmurs. "You passed out at the witness’s place." He takes his hands away.

 

Sam's eyes widen, and he sits up, but it's too fast, and his eyes snap shut. He groans. Dean puts a hand at Sam's back to keep him upright. The dizzy spell passes quickly. Sam blinks at him. "It's a ghost," he says.

 

"Sure is," Dean responds, humoring Sam. "Let's get you outta here."

 

"We have to salt and burn the body," Sam says, grunting audibly as he turns and gets his feet on the ground. "I know where he's buried."

 

"It's not night yet," Dean says, even as he has no plans to head into a cemetery tonight. "Up, up, up, c'mon, you can do it."

 

It takes their combined effort to get Sam fully vertical and out of the room. Dean keeps an arm looped around Sam's waist even as they exit the room. Sam tries to swat him away, but he's so weak that it feels more like the brush of a baby bird's wing. Dean is not going anywhere.

 

Sam waves at Anthony as they pass him. "Good kid," he says to Dean, loud enough for Anthony to hear, who ducks his head.

 

"Hey, uh, thanks for calling me," Dean says. "We'll get in touch with you shortly."

 

Anthony smiles at them with an odd look in his eye. "Sure thing, agents," he says, holding the front door open for them.

 

Outside, the snow has picked up. It's not quite a flurry, but it's getting there, and Dean's vision is already partially obscured by the snowfall. They make it to the Impala without injury, but both of them are goddamn freezing, and Sam's rattling like a dead man's bones, his breath clicking through his clenched teeth.

 

Dean turns the heat up high and heads back to the motel, jaw clenched. Sam's having a little bit of trouble breathing. Earlier, Dean had hoped it was just a cold. Now he hopes it's just the flu and not anything worse than that. Poor kid doesn't deserve any more torment.

 

Sam makes it into the motel by himself but practically collapses onto the nearest bed, landing face-first on Dean's pillow. Dean strips out of his clothes until he's just in boxers and a t-shirt and works on helping Sam do the same. The fact Sam doesn't protest as Dean carefully unloops his belt from his pants is unsettling. Even as a child Sam was hell-bent on independence and doing things himself, which was adorable coming from a four year old. The lack thereof--not so much from a twenty-two year old.

 

Sam tugs the blankets of the bed up to his chin after Dean's got him down to the basics. After a few minutes, he's still shivering, so Dean rips the sheets off of Sam's bed and spreads them over Sam's body. He lumbers over to the heater under the window and turns it on, closing the curtains. He drags the med kid out of his duffel and takes out the thermometer. 

 

Dean sits by Sam. "Hold still," he mutters, uncapping the thermometer and placing it in Sam's ear. They wait in silence for several beats until the thermometer beeps. Dean takes it out and peers closely at it. 101.2. Fantastic. Definitely a fever.

 

"Looks like we're staying in tonight," Dean says, "you get some rest, okay?"

 

Sam moans in protest. In the low light, his forehead gleams with sweat. It's gonna be a rough one. "M'Elroy," he slurs, frowning lopsidedly at Dean.

 

"Don't worry about him right now, I've got it figured out," Dean tells Sam, running a hand through his hair. "Just sleep, Sammy."

 

Sam hums angrily, but his will to fight is gone. All it takes is some scalp-scratching from Dean and the heat kicking in in earnest for him to finally drift into a fitful sleep. 

 

Dean keeps a bedside vigil, checking Sam's temperature every few hours, his stomach dropping each time it climbs higher and higher. He calls Bobby and gets a confirmation that a local hunter will come in and take care of the bones and the burning. All Dean has to worry about is Sam.

 

It's not very comforting. 

 

Dean tries to placate his mind, always so far on-edge. It's just the flu. Sam will sweat and burn the fever out, and be a bit weaker for it for a few days, but in a week from now, he'll be fine, and things can continue on like usual. Dean will keep gently pushing Sam to express himself, to talk with Dean, and maybe someday soon they'll be a single unit again, something tangible. They just have to get through this bullshit first. Easy peasy.

 

Yeah, sure.

 

Sam starts tossing and turning at around one in the morning, making low noises of distress deep in his throat. He's a persistent red now, and if his fever goes up even two degrees, they're heading straight to the nearest hospital. Dean keeps a washcloth by the bed to wipe at Sam's face and hairline. 

 

Sam cries out and Dean jumps up from the other bed, shitty b-list flick forgotten, loping the two steps to Sam's side as fast as he can. Sam's head tosses back and forth, his hair splaying out around him like blood from a wound. Sam's adam's apple bobs, his lips opening and closing. "No, please," he croaks raggedly, brows pinching together. His mouth pulls into a deep frown. "No."

 

"Sammy," Dean says, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey, you're just dreamin'. It's okay. C'mon, dude."

 

Sam pants openly, his chest moving up and down rapidly. "It's my fault," he groans, sounding crushed. "No."

 

Dean flexes his hand, fingers trembling. "Sam," he says louder, running his fingers through Sam's hair in hopes that it'll register as comfort in Sam's subconscious. "It's okay."

 

Sam settles, only slightly, his breath still quick but evening out and slowing down. He twitches, caught in the throes of a dream, but it doesn't escalate any further. 

 

The night only has a few more bumps and hiccups. Sam stays asleep, thank god, even if it isn't a calm and pleasant sleep. His fever doesn't rise above almost 103 or so, so Dean's blood pressure doesn't suffer too much. He tries to stay up all night to keep constant vigil, but he's only human.

 

He's woken up at around nine in the morning by... something. He doesn't quite know what. His brain is telling him something is up, and the feeling only increases the more he joins the land of the living. He blinks, yawning and sitting up, looking over at the other bed to check on Sammy.

 

Ah. That's what woke him up. 

 

The bed is empty. 

 

Dean jumps out of his own bed. "Sam?" he calls. He feels the sheets of the other bed. Warmish. He stops and listens and hears the shower running. He mentally curses himself for the little freakout. It's not like Sam was in any shape to leave the last time Dean saw him.

 

Dean makes his way over to the bathroom door, still open a crack. He knocks on it once to let Sam know he's there. "You doin' okay?" he shouts over the flow of water.

 

"Uhhhh huh," Sam mumbles back, "out in a second." He coughs, and it sounds like he's hacking up a lung. 

 

Dean frowns. "Finish up soon," he orders. "I'll get breakfast."

 

Dean makes it there and back from the closest mom and pop place in record time with some waffles for Sam and flapjacks for himself. Sam exits the shower looking only around half dead. Dean tries to press him with questions over their meal to gauge Sam's mental state, and gets a bad read when Sam only bothers to answer two questions, both of which could be responded to monosyllabically. 

 

Sam isn't much better from last night. His fever didn't rise overnight, but it didn't break, either. As the day goes on, Dean discovers that Sam was only able to answer him by sheer miracle. He's fucking delirious, maybe even hallucinating. He keeps trying to leave in "sneaky" ways, saying something about the car, ice, or taking out the trash, and Dean has to wrangle him back to the bed. It's pathetically easy, like fighting a puppy. Well, a sick puppy.

 

The last time Dean puts Sam back to bed is met with angry, burning tears. "They're all gonna die," Sam growls at him, chin puffed out like an irate toddler, "and it's gonna be my fault. All my fault."

 

A beat passes in silence before Sam takes another breath. "...Fuck you."

 

Dean grins at that. "Dude, masochism is not attractive on you. No one's getting hurt. McElroy's taken care of. The city is safe, good rises again, all that nice stuff."

 

"You don't understand," Sam whines, entire face trembling. "I need to do better."

 

Dean puts a hand on Sam's head. "You're doin' awesome, kiddo," he says. "Top notch."

 

"No," Sam says, a tear falling down his pinked cheek, "I'm evil."

 

He says it with such solid conviction that Dean doesn't know how to begin responding to that one. He gets Sam is seriously ill, yeah, but this shit doesn't come from nowhere. Somewhere, deep  down, Sam believes all of this.

 

It's fucking stupid, that's what it is. He's always figured Sam was still fighting insecurity and depression, who wouldn't be in his place, but to think that he actually hates himself... Dean can't even fathom it. A freaky vision or two doesn't make someone evil, and certainly not Sam. Sam is the best person this godforsaken planet has to offer, but Dean's too chickenshit to tell Sam that in a way that matters.

 

Sam turns away from him, dull, unfocused eyes staring toward the T.V. 

 

Dean goes around the bed and sits on Sam's other side, in his field of view. Sam's red-rimmed eyes slowly drift to him and narrow. Dean wonders what he's seeing. "You're not evil," Dean tells him, punctuating each syllable. "You're the best person I know. Now get some sleep, okay? You must feel like shit. You'll feel better after some rest."

 

Dean swallows past his nerves. Sam's eyes are boring sickly holes in him, and Dean can see Sam processing something very slowly, reaching a conclusion that leaves him looking even more desolate than before. "You don't get it, I'm evil, I feel evil things," Sam whispers, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. 

 

"It's not your fault," Dean responds, fighting past the lump in his throat and the pit in his stomach. "We can get past that."

 

Sam struggles under the sheets, trying to sit upward. Dean represses a sigh and helps him, getting his arms under Sam's armpits and hauling the big sasquatch up. Sam's hands find Dean's cheeks, freezing him in place. Dean’s eyes widen. Sam's eyes mirror his own. 

 

"Thank you," Sam says, and his voice is so low and urgent that it sounds like his throat has transformed into a cheesegrater. "Thank you so much for everything. You're so good to me and I don't give you anything. I don't know why you stay."

 

Dean's own eyes are starting to burn. He tries to pull away from Sam's sweaty grasp but Sam is keeping him inches away from his face. Sam's eyes move back and forth between his own. 

 

"...I won't leave," Dean says eventually, praying non-delirious, healthy Sam won't remember a single moment of this. "I promise."

 

Sam's face crumples, more tears spilling. He pulls Dean forward and kisses him softly on the lips before pushing him away with more force than Dean thought he was able. "See?" Sam rasps, closing his eyes and curling into the bed. "Evil things."

 

Dean backs up from the bed, blinking down at Sam. His heart is racketing around in his throat, climbing higher, obstructing his breathing. Sam makes a single tortured noise before his body relaxes into sleep.

 

If only Dean could be given the same pleasure. He moves like he's the one in a delirium dream, not Sam, pulling the sheets up over Sam's bony shoulders. He gets up and sits numbly at the edge of his bed.

 

He puts a hand to his mouth. 

 

He closes his eyes.

 

\---

 

Sam wakes near dinnertime, and his fever has broken, thank god, but he's not yet quite with it, either. Dean feels like shit for feeling grateful for a woozy, confused Sammy, but it means Sam won't mention the incident from before or go on another self-hating tirade. He's just dopey-looking, really, fighting to keep his eyelids open and his head upright. They eat together in Sam's bed. It's nothing fancy, just a can of chicken noodle soup Dean got when he was too antsy to keep still, but it does the trick. Dean forgot to eat more than a single bite earlier so the soup is like ambrosia going down, and Sam's eating it, too. Just by eyeballing the kid, Dean can tell he's lost a couple of pounds over the last few days, so seeing Sam bring the spoon to his mouth until his bowl is almost empty is therapeutic. 

 

Dean takes their dishes to the tiny kitchenette and dumps them in the sink. He drags the med kit out to check Sam's temperature one last time. 99 degrees fahrenheit. When he wakes up in the morning, he should be at a regular, healthy temperature again. 

 

Neither of them have spoken for several hours beside a few murmured thanks and the like from Sam. Dean turns the T.V. on to escape the stifling silence and moves to his own bed. The only thing halfway decent on is a nature documentary about zebras, and Sam seems interested enough, so. 

 

During the commercial break, Sam sits up and coughs into his elbow. He turns to Dean. "What about the hunt?" he asks. His voice is sounding better, less zombie-fied, most definitely.

 

Dean shrugs. "Bobby's putting someone on it," he says, "probably Erica and Nick."

 

Sam sags a little. "Everything is taken care of?"

 

Dean bobs his head. "Everything is taken care of," he echoes. 

 

Sam looks like he wants to say something else, but he turns, leaving it hanging in the air. He chews on his fingernails as he stares at the screen, the colors flicking across his face and shining in his eyes. Dean realizes he's staring and looks quickly away, trying to re-focus on the documentary. A zebra is bleeding out by a watering hole.

 

Sam's out before the end of the documentary, so Dean goes through his nightly routine as quietly as he can, turning off the television and shutting the curtains. He does his business in the bathroom and leaves the light on, closing the door until it's open a crack and a spear of light penetrates deep into the room, stretching across Sam's waist. Dean gets into his own bed and turns toward his brother. 

 

"Night," he whispers, for his own benefit. He's exhausted, and the only productive thought he can muster up is to hope that tomorrow is a better day.

 

Despite the weight on his eyelids and the heaviness of his limbs, sleep doesn't find him.

 

Two more days pass in the same rhythm. They wake, Sam gets better, they sleep. By the time Dean gets word from Bobby that all the bones have been successfully salted and burned, Sam is more or less okay, save for a few dry coughs and a runny nose. Dean can only be grateful it was a flu and not something worthy of the E.R.

 

Sam's quiet as they pack up their bags. This motel has been their home for the longest stretch of time in a good while. Dean enjoys the wild, open freedom of the road, of course he does, but he can't deny that there was a certain comfort in laying down temporary roots and looking after Sam. Sure, his world got tilted and he was thrown in a huge metaphorical ocean of crisis and everything, but it was not the worst week of his life.

 

Dean gets all of his bags into the car without any comment to Sam. When he sits behind the driver's seat, he lets out a breath, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a wave, back and forth across his hands. He starts the ignition when Sam slams the trunk. He turns on the radio and tunes it out. He's not picky this time. Anything will do.

 

Sam slides into the passenger seat and Dean heads out onto the road. They stop for supplies at a gas station and Sam picks up two newspapers, one for the nearest big city, and one regional. He takes a sharpie out of his backpack and starts skimming the pages, tongue pinned between his front teeth. 

 

Sam doesn't mean to, but it effectively closes him off from Dean. The driver's seat is his own personal bubble, and it doesn't take long for his thoughts to stray to darker pastures. 

 

He hasn't let himself dwell on what happened a single time since it occurred. He was able to occupy his mind with feeding and clothing Sam, with the familiar, repetitive ministrations of caring for an ill baby brother.

 

But come on, man. He's gonna explode if he doesn't mention it. Fuck.

 

What the hell was that?

 

His sense memory is flawless. Sam's lips were dry, a little chapped, but for a sick guy, very soft, very not gross. That wasn't a "I'm drunk and horny enough to make out with whoever looks at me next" kiss. That wasn't a hallucination "hey this is my girlfriend, Jess" kiss. It was more like a "I'm so fucking sorry that I love you" kiss, if those exist. It was meant for him. But like Sam's deep conviction that he's evil, it was supposed to stay in the privacy of Sam's mind, and delirium put it out in the open.

 

So should Dean just... pretend it never happened? Afford Sam some kind of respect? Maybe the delirium was mixing up the brotherly and romantic love wires in Sam's head. Maybe Sam didn't mean it, and he'd be embarrassed as all hell if he ever remembered it happened. 

 

That's the worst part, Dean thinks. He has no idea if Sam feels the same way he does, feels the same way he has since Sam was a teenager. It's not like he could just ask him. Well... except fuck no. No way in hell. 

 

He needs to do something, though, no matter how small. Dean is a man of action. He could mention something else to Sam from the same delirium era, and see if Sam remembers that. If he does... Dean's not keen on imagining the conversations that follow. But if he doesn't, Dean has to lay it to rest. He does. 

 

It's not all about him right now. Sam is hurting. Sam is recovering from an illness. Dean's dreams and desires do not factor into the situation one bit. It doesn't matter if he's dreamt of that kiss a billion times. Tough shit, he tells himself. 

 

He can't pursue it, that much is certain. Nothing could ever come of it, anyway, even in a perfect world. It's not meant to be. He's gotta look out for Sammy, and that--that is not doing the job. Dean's used to holding back, pushing things down deep, and this is no different. Business as usual, really. 

 

Sam's probably sensing that something's fucking with Dean, considering they haven't traded more than a few words since Sam's fever broke. Dean's getting a headache from all the internal-dialogue-touchy-feely shit, anyway.

 

"What were you thinking about for lunch?" Dean asks, 'cause food is as neutral a subject as any. Plus, he hasn't had a decent burger in a couple days. A man has needs.

 

"Lunch?" Sam echoes, voice rising in disbelief at the end. "We just had breakfast."

 

"Yeah, but you know me, Sammy," Dean says, giving Sam a quick look with a cheap grin. "I like to plan ahead."

 

Sam nods his head, his face classic Skeptical Sam. "Sure," he allows, capping his marker. "Maybe find something East of us."

 

Dean peers at the newspaper in Sam's lap and sees a blurb circled. "Another hunt?" he asks.

 

"Uh huh," Sam says. "Michigan, this time. Bloody."

 

"But..." Dean trails off, biting at the inside of his cheek. "Isn't it kind of fast?"

 

"I feel fine," Sam asserts, clearing his throat, sitting up straighter. "I'm okay to hunt."

 

"Sure you are," Dean says, "I just think maybe we need a commercial break, huh? Get re-situated and all that."

 

"Dean, the last few days were an entire infomercial," Sam says, "I'm good, I promise."

 

Dean stares at the road ahead, frowning. The radio sings about cherry pies. "Well, maybe I'm not," he finally manages.

 

"What's up with you?" Sam asks, squinting at him, making Dean's skin itch, just a little.

 

Dean shrugs. "I... just think it would be good for us," he hedges. 

 

Sam's silent. Dean ignores his scrutinizing gaze in favor of the blacktop in front of him. 

 

"You know, you-" Sam cuts himself off. His tone's slightly stormy, and Dean braces himself for more, but nothing comes. When Dean risks a look at him, Sam's eyes have transformed, doing the kicked puppy routine.

 

"I'll call Bobby," Sam murmurs, and Dean's mind races to decipher Sam's voice, Sam's change of mood, but he can't quite place it. 

 

Dean blinks. "Hey, uh, thanks," he grunts as Sam takes out his phone and flips it open. "Just a few days, I promise."

 

Sam doesn't look at him. Dean ignores Sam's false cheer during his conversation with Bobby. He takes the next exit and jumps on the highway heading West, not East. They're heading to South Dakota, not Michigan. 

 

Yet Dean has no idea what lies ahead for either of them. 

 

He lets out a long breath and considers turning up the radio. Sam must have the same idea, because he does it for him, tossing the newspapers into the back seat and staring out the window. 

 

Dean nods to himself. He's half certain he just made things a million times worse, but hey. 

 

One step at a time.

 

\---

 

Dean's been kind of preparing for the worst-case scenario, so he's justifiably relieved when the whole trip across the 'States goes rather swimmingly. They stop for some good burgers at lunch, and the bickering feels like the usual, like there aren't any scary words unsaid or undertones lurking just out of sight, ready to be provoked at a moment's notice. 

 

Sam even smiles once, which was a rarity even before all of this started. Dean counts it as a day well spent. 

 

They drive all day and enter South Dakota right before dinner. Sioux Falls is right at the state border, so they turn onto Bobby' gravelly driveway just as tummies start rumbling. The Impala slows to a stop outside his front door, and Bobby's on the porch when Dean cuts the engine, leaning against the railing. He raises a hand in greeting.

 

Dean raises his hand in response. It's good to see Bobby. It's been awhile. He's always served as a bit of a home base for them, even when they were kids, so Dean's hoping it'll do both of them some good.

 

Sam gets out of the car, shaking Dean out of his thoughts. Dean steps out after his brother. "Hey, Bobby," Sam greets, grinning widely at their uncle. 

 

"Hey, kid," Bobby says back, gruff demeanor all but melting away as he approaches Sam. He wraps Sammy in a bear hug, clapping him on the back with enough force to startle a few weak coughs out of Sam.

 

"He's getting over the flu, you might wanna get out of the spray zone," Dean warns, approaching the two of them. It was a solid idea to come here. He's already feeling less burdened.

 

"Coulda warned me earlier, boy," Bobby says, before wrapping Dean in a similar hug. He pulls back. "Alright, alright, alright. It's gettin' cold out here, let's head inside. You two in the mood for chili?"

 

Dean scoffs. "Am I ever not?" he asks in an exaggerated tone, hand fluttering to his chest.

 

Bobby rolls his eyes and heads back up the stairs. "Come on, then," he says.

 

"Yes, sir," Sam says, scurrying back to the trunk. They load up together in silence, and have their bags situated in the guest room in no time at all.

 

Dinner goes well. Dean updates Bobby on their various adventures, on their progress finding Dad, and Bobby mentions a couple of hunts in the area he might go check out. Dean's surprised when Sam doesn't offer to take them off of Bobby's hands, but he's grateful, too. 

 

It's only when they head upstairs that Dean's sunshiney mood is dashed away.

 

They've only been lounging around for a couple of minutes, resting and getting their things situated, when Sam huffs and sits up, swinging his legs off the edge of his bed to face Dean's. 

 

Dean puts down the magazine he wasn't really reading. "You good, Sammy?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

 

"So?" Sam asks, holding his arms out. "When're you gonna do it?"

 

Dean shifts to mirror Sam's position, bringing them eye-to-eye. "What the hell do you mean?" he asks, working hard to hide the shake in his voice. He swallows.

 

"Isn't it time to 'therapize' me?" Sam asks in a challenging tone. "To tell me what a freak I am, that I need help? You're dumping me here, right? Or we just going to ignore what happened for the rest of our lives?"

 

Dean wants to ask "ignore what?" just as much as he knows that'd be a shit fucking awful idea. He blinks, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. He's gonna need more than a moment. He needs to say it right, or Sam's gonna fight, Sam's gonna run, Sam's not gonna trust him anymore. It has to be the right thing.

 

"Sammy," Dean starts. He looks away from Sam's empty, pained gaze and looks out the window into the black night instead. "You were sick."

 

"I still am," Sam chokes out, and oh, god damn it. He opens his mouth to say more but Dean has got to put an end to that shit right now.

 

"Okay, hold on," he growls, effectively cowing Sam into silence, but hating himself for the teary, childlike gaze he gets in response. "Cut that out. You're not sick, you're not evil, you're not a freak, and I don't want to hear that from you ever again 'cause it ain't true."

 

Sam opens his mouth but Dean holds his hand up. "Let me finish, kiddo," he says. "I ain't pissed at you. Just lemme..." Dean trails off, searching for the right word. "Please?"

 

Sam nods mutely, not looking any better than before, but it's something.

 

"Look," Dean starts, picking his brain for just the right words. "I just. We've gotta clarify something first. Was that--was it meant for me?"

 

"The kiss?" Sam asks, and Dean flinches. Sam's lips twist up in a bitter smile at Dean's reflex. "Do you mean, did I want to kiss my brother? It wasn't some fever dream?"

 

Dean coughs a little, cheeks heating up. He wishes he didn't have such a visceral reaction to this shit, especially 'cause he knows talking is the only way to really solve things. "Yeah," he finally manages, looking Sam in the eye from under his brow.

 

"Yeah," Sam echoes, sighing out the syllable. "It was meant for you."

 

"Okay," Dean says. "Because, you know, if you were hallucinating some really hot broad in my place, I gotta say, I was gonna be really disappointed."

 

Sam's neck snaps up and his jaw and temple ripple in a line of restrained emotions. "This is not a joke," he hisses, his voice lowered and scratchy with unshed tears. 

 

"I wasn't joking," Dean says, and off the precipice he goes. "God, Sammy, please, you know me, I can't say this shit, I can't do it..." He swallows, fingers curling on his knees. "My first plan was to tell you I don't mind. It's cool that you have a crush on me, perfectly normal, nothing's different, blah blah blah. But that wouldn't be fair to you."

 

"What are you saying?" Sam asks in a small voice.

 

"What does it sound like?" Dean counters. "I've been holdin' you through nightmares and pickin' out skirts for you since you were a whiny little preteen. Whatever fucked up boat you're in, kid, I've been there for years."

 

Sam stands up. "I. I can't do this right now."

 

Dean gets up to face him. "Hey, come on," he begs, "this is hard enough for me as it is. Just... listen."

 

Sam bites his lip, shaking his head. He moves away, toward the door. 

 

Dean follows him every step of the way. "I've dreamt of you for years and I've hated myself for it, Sam. Told myself I'm fucked up, I'm a pedophile, I'm taking advantage of you, all that good stuff. When you were all woozy and spewing that shit about how evil you are, and then you kissed me... I knew you felt all that, deep down, but it wasn't supposed to come out."

 

Sam takes another step back. "But we both know it now, and we have to do something about it," Dean says, louder, like it'll keep Sam from leaving. "So, I'm gonna be honest with you, because you deserve it. You are not evil. You are the only decent person on this shitty fucking planet and you can do way better than me, Sammy. I'm angry all the time and I take it out on you. I'm a drunk. But you're a genius. You are so beautiful." Dean's voice cracks. "It drives me nuts that you can't see that."

 

Dean retreats, moving back to the beds, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Please stay," he says. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to. Nothing's messed up. Not more than usual. Maybe we can't ever, uh, be that for each other, but Sammy, you're a good person."

 

Sam shakes his head again, with more vigor, his hair falling into his face and half obscuring the single tear that falls when he closes his eyes. "I just need a moment," Sam says after beats of strained silence. Dean opens his mouth, but Sam's already gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

Dean falls onto the bed ass-first, sitting hunched over with his hands in his lap. He said everything he could, every single world he could pry out of his heart, just to make Sam stay, and he still left. Dean can't really blame him. Everything has been hurting lately, and apparently, the forecast isn't going to change any time soon.

 

\---

 

Dean gets a beer from the fridge and heads onto the porch to drink away his sorrows. He freezes up after opening the screen door. Curled up with only a shitty canvas jacket on is Sam. He's on the top step, staring out over the salvage yard. He doesn't say anything.

 

"You're still here," Dean says, and it's not really a question. He takes a step forward, like he's stepping out onto fragile ice.

 

"I needed some air," Sam says. "I wasn't going to run away. I've done enough of that."

 

Dean sits down beside him, thighs brushing. "I think we both have."

 

Sam turns his head to meet Dean's gaze out of the corner of his eye. He's doing that geekboy assessing thing, so Dean lets him look. He's sure he looks worn out and beaten down as hell. 

 

"Get me a beer, would you?" Sam finally asks.

 

Dean gets another out of the fridge and steps back out into the chill, handing it to Sam. "Can this be drunk inside?" Dean asks. "There's this nifty thing called central heating. You should check it out."

 

"I like it out here," Sam says. "It's quiet."

 

"Not much longer," Dean says, and it's a nice middle ground. "We don't want you getting pneumonia while you're still getting over the flu."

 

"I'm fine," Sam says.

 

"Bull," Dean says, and Sam's barely-there smile evaporates altogether. "That's why we need this break. If we keep this all cooped up, we're gonna explode. When I got you to talk about Dad, about Jess, didn't it help?"

 

"This is different," Sam laughs, "this is leagues more fucked up."

 

"Eh, tomato, tomahto," Dean says, shrugging. He takes a long sip of his beer. "You know, we should get a cabin someplace quiet. You can wear whatever the hell you want without people being pieces of shit, I can shoot random garbage for target practice, it'd be nice."

 

Sam laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Dean's eyes are glued to his profile. The curve of his jaw is so graceful, his eyelashes so long. The porch light overhead only accentuates Sam's best features, shadows putting high contrast to his angular contours. "You know, I don't hate myself because of that," he says, and it's so conversational it trips Dean up for a second. "I used to, when I was younger, but you helped me. I think that's when the crush formed."

 

"Why do you, then?" Dean asks, to cover up how important that piece of information is to him. If he thinks about how long they've both been stealing glances for a single second longer, he doesn't know what he'll do.

 

"You wouldn't understand," Sam says. "Can we talk about something else? I'm doing better, I promise. You're helping me do better."

 

"Sam..."

 

"Not right now," he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "There is way too much going on right now."

 

"Okay," Dean says, bobbing his head. He finishes his beer. "Okay. We've got time, Sammy. We've got a helluva lot of time to beef you back up, do some sparring, get back on our feet, all that stuff."

 

He watches Sam's lips as Sam upends the beer bottle, closing his eyes as he swallows down the last third all at once. The machinations of his throat are just as appealing as the seal of his mouth around the drink. "I'm here, you know," Dean adds. "If that wasn't obvious."

 

"A bit obvious," Sam tells him, "but you're trying."

 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever," he mutters. "C'mon, up. It's gettin' too cold out here."

 

Sam obeys, standing up and stretching. Dean turns to head back inside when Sam's voice stops him.

 

"Hey," Sam says, almost in a whisper. He closes the space between them with a small, chaste kiss. He ducks his head and keeps his eyes on the floorboards. "Thanks."

 

Dean's hands itch to hold on to Sam, to press him close and never let go. He resists the urge. "No problem," he says instead, voice so gruff he sounds like a caveman.

 

Sam smiles once and pushes past him, heading inside. It takes a moment for Dean's brain to get back to the present, but once it does, he follows after Sam. 

 

He's not really sure how to process the day's events, but Sam's smiling. Sam's okay. Sam kissed him again. 

 

He's sorta looking forward to tomorrow.

 

\---

 

Bobby reads something off of them, but it's not everything, thank god. He seems to understand that they need to be here to re-center themselves, to get their brains thoroughly un-fucked before venturing out in the world of missing fathers and night time creepy-crawlies. He sets them to work just like Dean expected, cleaning up and tinkering with cars and shoveling up snow. It helps both of them. 

 

Sam spends a lot of time by himself, acting all quiet and thoughtful and shit. It doesn't really worry Dean, 'cause Sam smiles a little easier, and his resting face isn't as depressed as fuck. He seems to have figured something out, and Dean's glad for him.

 

It's... kind of weird, now, but not in a terrible way. They both liked the kisses, they both like each other, but the general consensus is that things need to stay as they are. As much as that makes Dean want to die when he thinks about it at three in the morning, it's a good thing. It makes sense. The world has not been destroyed. Things are solid, stable, readjusting. 

 

He'll save the kisses in his mind forever and return to them when he needs to. It's much, much, much more than he ever thought he'd get, so he feels crappy when he craves more, but each day it gets easier. Sam's eyes hold that same Thing now, and their looks have a more nuanced language. They don't need words, but they still share them. 

 

From one problem to a solution to a smaller, angstier problem. Dean can work with that. Things are looking up in their own way.

 

It's their third day with Bobby, and Dean hasn't seen Sam for more than a couple of minutes all day. When he awoke, Sam was already shoveling snow, and their list of tasks just never lined up. When Dean was out, Sam was in, and vice-versa. 

 

Dean goes down to dinner with a spring in his step. He's looking forward to Sam. He knows it hasn't been that long, but he misses Sammy, sue him. 

 

Down at the table, though, Bobby sits alone, pasta before him.

 

Dean goes to the stove and makes himself a bowl. "Where's Sam?" he asks.

 

Bobby puts down his fork. "He had dinner early," he says. "Said he had something he wanted to work on. I'm about to go into town for some supplies, too, so hold up the fort, kid."

 

"Got it," Dean says, trying to hide his disappointment. They share idle conversation as they eat. Bobby finishes very quickly and Dean is left to himself and his thoughts for the umpteenth time. 

 

He doesn't really taste the food but he downs it anyway, moving mechanically. He wants to finish it right away and hunt down Sam, just to check up on him. He hopes to god the thing he's working on isn't hunt or Dad-related or he's gonna kill the kid. Dean needs more time. Sam does, too. It's not the time for supernatural garbage.

 

Dean's thoughts are still moody as he cleans up and heads up the stairs. He belches and pushes into the guest room, searching for Sam.

 

Sure enough, Sam's there, but he's not hunched over a laptop or desperately paging through ancient tomes or lore. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking up at Dean expectantly. He must've been waiting for him.

 

Oh, and he's gorgeous.

 

He's gone all out. Dean knows from experience that that much makeup takes fucking forever to apply. It's not overdone, it's subtle, but Dean helped so much with the stuff that he can see the effort all the same. Sam's eyes are lined with black, and there's a little bit of color on his eyelids, bringing out the kaleidoscope of colors in his eyes. His lips are a soft pink and his angular face seems to glow. He's like a fairy or a forest sprite or something. He's wearing an open plaid shirt- not one from the usual collection, but a more feminine one- and a tank top. His long legs are accentuated by the skin-tight jeans he's got on.

 

It's not a little black dress or something super elegant, but it's obviously done with intent. Sam dressed himself up. He worked hard on it. 

 

Dean slowly closes the door behind him, trying to calm down his brain. "What's this for?" he asks.

 

Sam spreads his arms. His nails are painted, too. He smiles, but it's tremulous. He's clearly nervous. "Who do you think it's for?" he counters. "It's for you."

 

"Uh," Dean starts, swallowing down some drool. "I mean, hell yeah, but why?"

 

"I realized some things," Sam says, shrugging. He ducks his head, blushing. "I keep seeing the way you look at me, and..." he trails off, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. "I just know we want the same thing. And I do. I want it."

 

Dean's heart is slingshotted into 5th gear. "Sam..." he says, his mouth going dry, body going hot. He licks his lips. "Are you sure?"

 

"Yes," Sam says, but his voice shakes. 

 

"I want you," Sam adds, more quietly. "I--you're right. We deserve this break. And we deserve each other."

 

Oh, man. Dean racks his head for further protests and reasons why they shouldn't, but he can't be bothered. Maybe he's selfish, yeah. But maybe he's not. Maybe he's good at reading Sam, at seeing what Sam needs and what he loves. Right now, it's painfully obvious.

 

Dean creeps closer. Sam blinks rapidly, tracking his movements, adam's apple bobbing. "We go slow," Dean says, because fuck it, he's never loved Sam more and he's sick of forcing the distance. He doesn't even want to think about what it will be like when they finally find Dad, if he'll see that they're a unit, but more, so much more. So he doesn't think about it. "You tell me to stop if you don't want something."

 

"Duh," Sam says, giving him a tiny smile. "Same to you. This isn't my first time."

 

"I know," Dean says, "But it's my first time like this. And it's you."

 

Sam registers the weight of the statement, and he sobers. He's still mesmerizing. He nods slowly. "And it's you," he says back, patting the bed beside him. "Which is exactly why this is completely fine."

 

Dean simultaneously balks at that and wholeheartedly agrees. Sam makes perfect sense. There's never really been anyone else, certainly not for Dean. Dean knows now it's the same for Sam. 

 

He sits beside Sam, pressing up close into his warmth. He moves to nuzzle at Sam's jaw, slowly breathing in his scent, his heart pounding right out of his chest all the while. 

 

The world is extra-sharp and extra-colorful and it's all because of what Sam does to him. Dean couldn't go back now if he wanted to. He presses a gentle kiss to the edge of Sam's mouth in complete silence. When he pulls back, Sam turns his head to meet Dean's gaze, their eyes locking.

 

Dean has had doubts all his life about if Sam really loved him. He's punished himself, convinced himself he doesn't deserve Sam's love, told himself there's no way Sam feels anything for him. 

 

But this right here is indisputable evidence, taking Dean's breath away. The raw look in Sam's eyes is impossible to describe and do it justice. It's just fucking love. It's more intimate than sex or words could ever be. It's what Dean knows reflects in his own eyes right now, what was reflected every time he held Sam in his arms. 

 

It's too much and absolutely perfect at the same time. It takes root in Dean's soul, settles down deep, fills in the little gap made up of ache that has been Dean's bedfellow for years and years. It's a little scary to feel this complete, this whole, but Dean wouldn't trade it for anything.

 

They are on the same wavelength. They share the same heartbeat. The rhythm of the dance is implicit. Sam leans forward at the same time as Dean, in sync, as always. They meet in the middle with a warm, soft kiss. Dean's arm comes up and cradles Sam's neck. His fingertips trace slowly across soft skin. Sam's mouth opens up beneath his lips, endlessly trusting.

 

Dean seals his lips around Sam's bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth. He traces his tongue around it, urging Sam's mouth open wider. Sam breathes out loudly through his nose, a small whine escaping from deep within his throat. He lets Dean in. Dean laps into his mouth, warmth seeping into his entire body. A kiss has never meant more and he knows each one he shares with Sam will carry the same weight and devotion. 

 

Sam leans further toward him each time they break apart and mesh back together. He's melting into Dean's space, his sweat and perfume curling around Dean like a cloak. Dean reaches up to push his fingers deep into Sam's hair. He tilts Sam's head to make the kiss even better. Sam moans into Dean's mouth and Dean feels Sam's fingers land lightly on his hips. 

 

Dean pulls back just enough to press his nose against Sam's. He looks into Sam's eyes. "Good?" he asks, voice as hoarse as Sam's when he was ill.

 

Sam responds with an eyeroll and he shifts his head, slotting his lips against Dean's to shut him up. They make out for god knows how long, the only noises in the room the intermittent panting from both of them, the wet shlick of shiny lips, and a few mewls of pleasure from Sam. It's a symphony to Dean. He wants a cassette with these noises made up and kept safe in the Impala.

 

Dean's thoughts briefly flick through dirty snapshots of what the Impala possibly has in store for the future. Oh, hell yes. He's brought out of his fantasies by something in his periphery: Sam jamming the base of his palm against his crotch and restlessly moving his legs.

 

It makes it all the more real for Dean and he breaks off from Sam's kiss faster than he meant to, their lips separating with a loud pop. Sam blinks at him. Dean coughs. "You need some help there?"

 

Sam shrugs, playing at coy so easily as he bats his long eyelashes at Dean. "Do you wanna help?" Fuck. Has he had practice at this? Dean has a bunch of mixed feelings about Stanford, yeah, but now he feels an aggressive stab of jealously for all the guys Sam practiced his feminine wiles on.

 

Dean feels his own eyelids drop, gaze going dark and heated. He holds back a feral growl. He closes his eyes to regain control. This is Sam. Dean's used to rough, fast fucks, and he wants this to be different with Sam. Sure, they can go at it like animals, but c'mon. First it has to be slow and meaningful. Dean's promised himself that for years. Treat Sam well.

 

"In a minute," Dean says instead, watching Sam's eyes fill with a bit of curiosity, agitation, and annoyance. "M'not done kissin' you yet."

 

It's a good thing Sam's a patient and understanding man, 'cause Dean knows otherwise he'd be getting tackled right now. Sam's too good for him, and leans in easily with loose and relaxed muscles when Dean initiates another kiss.

 

It's not like he doesn't understand Sam's predicament. His own dick is rock hard, goddammit. There are wet dreams and dirty fantasies and then there's fucking this. This ascends to a tier far beyond silly fantasies of bumping into porn stars at the supermarket and hitting it off. What they have is so big that he honestly thinks no one else could understand. 

 

Anyway. He can stand a few more minutes of his dick pressing up against his jeans, so Sam can, too. He's gonna enjoy this and make it last. He's gonna make Sam cry. In the very best way possible.

 

In due time.

 

Sam's clever, though. They continue kissing, tongues brushing and mapping out paths in each other's mouths, and Sam slowly guides Dean's arms around his waist as he goes. He leans back, inch by inch, breaking apart for breath and making Dean chase him. Before he knows it, Sam is almost all the way onto his back, and Dean finds himself straddling his little brother's cut hips.

 

Sam closes his eyes, tossing his head to the side with a self-satisfied smile. He stretches out like a cat, arms above his head and legs going out straight, toes curling. He blinks up at Dean in such a soft and tender way that Dean's heart catches in his chest.

 

He follows Sammy's lead and pushes Sam's head back into the pillow. He gets onto his hands and knees and puts his multitasking skills to the test. He kisses Sam's mouth red, sneaking a hand up Sam's shirt and rubbing slowly at his side, fingers brushing tantalizingly at Sam's nipple. His other hand wanders across Sam's tummy, down through his happy trail until he hits jeans. 

 

He works at the button, getting it undone at a leisurely pace while Sam comes apart at the same speed. Sam's all doused in sweat now, chest going up, down, up, down, his mouth loosing coordination and his kisses growing sloppy. 

 

Dean pops the button on the skinny jeans and pulls down the zipper. Sam breaks the kiss apart to look down at himself. He grabs the waist of his pants and shimmies out of them, lifting up his ass and yanking them all the way off. He tosses them off the bed. His plaid shirt and tank top are next.

 

Dean stops to admire. Sam's blushing like crazy and his hair's a mess. Both nipples are peaked. He's all smooth save for downy curls of hair right above his waistline, which is now covered in a frilly little soft purple design.

 

Oh, jesus. Oh sweet jesus.

 

Dean jerks his gaze back up, his own cheeks burning. Sam is beautiful and gorgeous, and being with Sam is beautiful and gorgeous, but somehow ogling his panty-clad dick seems wrong. He knows Sam's not a virgin, not by any means, but he still feels like he's soiling Sam's purity just by laying eyes on him. It's total crap, but Dean can't help it.

 

Sam scoffs. "I didn't put them on for you to not look at them," he points out, rolling his hips. "Dean, seriously, it's okay."

 

"I know," Dean murmurs. He takes a breath and tells himself it's all real and he fucking looks. 

 

The panties are made outta some thin material that's almost sheer but not quite. They're pretty plain, save for a line of lace around the top. The purple is darkened by a wet spot of precome leaking out of Sam's cock head. His cock is hard and pressing up against the panties, straining, really. The outline is clear. Dean can practically see everything. 

 

Sam has wandered around the house/motel/what-the-fuck-ever in panties and a t-shirt before, but it was common courtesy for Dean not to look, just like Sam wasn't staring at Dean's junk in his boxer briefs. They've been naked around each other, too. It comes with the territory when you live in each other's pockets. So it's not like Dean has never seen Sam's dick before. That's familiar territory.

 

Still, though, up close... and he doesn't have to look away... it's a completely different experience.

 

Sam's fucking huge. He's got a big mushroom head and his balls are drawn up tight. Dean's breath hitches and Sam's cock twitches in response. 

 

"Please," Sam's voice cracks in that desperate, emotional way of his, "touch me."

 

Well, there's just no way he can deny Sammy when he sounds like that. It's his weakness.

 

He presses the palm of his hand against the outline of Sam's shaft. Through the softness of the panties, Sam's cock is burning hot and hard, pulsing at the pressure of Dean's grasp.

 

Dean has been in plenty of sexual scenarios. He's done anal with girls. He's been naked around other guys. He's had threesomes. He's fooled around with men, but never to this extent. When his brain isn't fixated on Sammy, he's a bit of a tits-and-ass man. 

 

Not the fuck anymore, though. Dean is Sam-sexual, through and through. 

 

He swallows down the saliva pooling in his mouth and tugs Sam's panties past his hips and down to his creamy thighs. Sam kicks them all the way off and then Dean gets to look for real at Sam's pretty pink cock. 

 

Now Dean gets what took Sam so long to prepare. He's absolutely clean-shaven down there. His balls are smooth. If Dean even stops to think about Sam's ass he's gonna get lightheaded.

 

He crawls back up Sam's body to give him a "thank you" kiss. Sam bumps his nose against Dean's cheek. Dean can feel Sam's smile against his chin. 

 

Dean reaches down and curls a fist around Sam's cock. He gives it a slow, rough tug, all the way from the base to the head, just the way he himself likes it. Sam does a full-body shiver, encouraging Dean to keep going. He rubs his thumb around Sam's soft head, dipping the tip into Sam's slit. 

 

Sam gasps, cock jerking against Dean's touch. 

 

"That good?" Dean pants, looking at Sam for confirmation. Sam's eyes are blown wide and dark and he's past the point of verbal communication. He nods wildly, hair falling onto his forehead. 

 

Dean uses the precome to slick his way. He gets his fingers around the big vein on the underside of Sam's cock and rubs. He thought it might be weird to jerk another guy off for the first time, but just like everything else in his life, it's Sam, so it's perfectly natural. He guides his hands by the way Sam responds. He discovers by Sam's throaty whines that Sam likes when Dean stays near the top of his cock, just under the head, rubbing faster and faster. 

 

Dean obeys. He's in it for Sam, all the way. Whatever makes Sam feel good makes Dean feel good. Sam's cock is soft against his hand and he's starting to really enjoy the heft of it against his palm. Sam's so fucking sensitive and his response to even a single touch is incredible. 

 

Sam's panting through his mouth and moaning almost constantly by the time he swats Dean's hand away. Just a moment earlier, his hips had been twitching, fucking his cock into Dean's grip. 

 

"Stop," Sam groans, "Guh. I don't want it to end like this."

 

Dean licks his lips and grins down at Sam, showing his teeth. "Oh yeah?"

 

Sam gives him a challenging look, so sexual and intimidating that it's all animal. "Get naked," he demands, pulling at the collar of Dean's shirt. 

 

"Don't have to ask me twice," Dean chuckles, sitting up, hovering over Sam's thighs. He unbuttons his shirt in record time and a moment later his undershirt is tossed off. Sam's dextrous fingers undo his belt and tug it through all the loops. Together, they get his jeans and boxers down to his knees and all the way off. Dean's cock springs free, bouncing up in the open air. 

 

Sam swears under his breath. "Jesus, this is..." he trails off, eyes glued to Dean's dick. He's used to girls singing praises but this means so much more. He's actually a bit shy. "You're so thick."

 

Sam's hand reaches out tentatively, pausing before it makes contact. Dean is so desperately hard at this point that he leans forward, cock bobbing until the head meets Sam's palm. 

 

Sam takes the hint and starts stroking him with his long fingers. Dean settles back down on top of Sam and finds his lips. Sam opens his mouth obediently for Dean. 

 

Dean takes both of them in his hand and moves his hips, grinding down against Sam. Sam moans and bucks up against him, quickly finding the right rhythm. They fuck their cocks against each other, Sam's dick catching against the underside of Dean's and causing shivers to run down Dean's spine, all the way to his toes.

 

Sam's hand finds his chest, pushing him up, an abrupt pause to Dean chasing that final crest.

 

"...No," Sam manages, barely coherent. His entire body is red. "Dean, I--please. Not like this."

 

"Sammy," Dean breathes, collapsing against his brother, pressing his lips to Sam's collarbone and tasting the sweat pooled there. "Sammy, I don't know what you want."

 

"Please," Sam repeats in a whine. "I need you, Dean. I want you to fuck me."

 

Dean gets up to meet Sam's fucked-out gaze. He wipes sweaty locks of hair out of Sam's vision and leaves a hand on Sam's cheekbone. "Sammy," he sighs, even as it kills him. "Maybe we should wait."

 

Sam shakes his head, legs sliding up until he's got his knees bent, legs spread wider to make room for Dean. "I've waited so long already," he says. "I want to do this every morning, forever."

 

Dean's gonna explode. Sam is gonna kill him. Sam is too much. He still harbors feelings that he couldn't possibly deserve this, but he knows it would hurt Sam if he said it out loud, so he keeps quiet. He explains away his feelings with an urgent kiss instead, hoping Sam gets the gist, that their physical language has been expanded sufficiently. 

 

Sam raises his legs, his heels digging into the top of Dean's ass. He understands. The kiss deepens, saying all the things Dean's too chickenshit to say any other way. He pushes his cock against Sam's one last time. "Just tell me what's good and what's not," he says quietly. Sam nods at him. 

 

Sam smiles softly. "I know," he whispers, reaching up to run fingers through Dean's hair. "Trust me, I know. Do it."

 

Throat full, Dean simply nods. He crawls off of Sam and moves to the closet. He sneaks a glimpse of Sam on the bed and finds Sam's eyes glued to his ass, filled to the brim with hunger. It's odd, but it makes Dean more confident. That kind of admiration leaves not a single reservation left in Dean's brain. Dean digs out the lube and the condoms, staring at them for a moment. The weight of what they imply sinks in. He stands, making his way back to the bed and to Sam.

 

He crawls over Sammy and kisses him once more before scooting back to sit between Sam's spread legs. He taps the inside of Sam's thigh and Sam spreads his legs wider.

 

Dean sets the condom down and pops the cap on the lube, spreading it  liberally across his fingers. 

 

He takes a moment to memorize the sight before him: Sam's chest heaving, Sam's eyes meeting his with a more-than-magnetic force, his rosy cock curving up against his tummy. It's better than beer and cars and pie combined. 

 

"Gonna be cold," he murmurs in warning, right before reaching forward and pressing the tip of his index finger against Sam's hole. 

 

After that, words are abandoned. Sam's breathing grows heavier and heavier as Dean concentrates on his work. He wants it to feel good for Sam, doesn't want it to hurt. He gently rubs his finger around the rim, trying to relax Sam. Once he's confident Sam's gotten used to the sensation, he presses the tip of his finger inside, fucking slowly, only up to the first knuckle. 

 

He pulls his finger out, only to apply a little bit more lube to ease the way. Slowly but surely, Sam's muscles relax around the intrusion and Dean's finger sinks all the way inside the heat of Sam's body. 

 

He gets some more lube, and Sam's muscles flutter around his finger when he presses it all the way back in, but Sam's used to it now and relaxes almost immediately. Dean hooks his finger up, fucking a little deeper, rubbing up, searching for the one spot that'll drive Sam insane.

 

His finger finds the nub and he rubs circles into it with the pad of his finger. Sam breathes in sharply, his cock twitching rapidly, over and over. Dean moves his finger faster and Sam tosses his neck back, his hips fucking down onto Dean's finger of their own volition. "Ohhhh god..." Sam moans, his voice deep and jagged. "Oh, god, oh, god. Right there."

 

Dean adds a second finger and some more lube. Sam's full of the stuff now, slick and shiny inside his puffy hole. The second finger goes easier than the first, and he hums to focus himself, putting all his concentration into fingering Sam. 

 

He adds a third finger and shifts his position, keeping his hand at Sam's hole but stretching his body to meet Sam's slack lips in a messy kiss. He fucks Sam with his fingers faster and faster, the wet squelch getting louder. Sam moans repeatedly into Dean's mouth, turning Dean lightheaded. 

 

When the slip and slide of his fingers is easy and Sam's boneless and pliant, Dean pulls his hand away and fumbles for the condom, heart pounding. His fingers shake as he rolls it down his cock. A warm touch finds his shoulder and he looks up to see Sam smiling at him, dipping his head in encouragement. Dean nods back. 

 

Sam spreads his legs at the same time Dean gets a hand around the base of his cock, guiding it to Sam's slick hole. He presses the head in, slowly, ever so slowly. At first, there's resistance, but all at once, the head is slipped into Sam's body, his hole flexing around the intrusion. 

 

Dean gives Sam a moment. Sam's arms come up, palms splayed across Dean's shoulderblades. "Go," he pants, right into Dean's ear.

 

Dean moves. He sinks deeper into Sam, inch by inch, painfully slowly. They breathe harshly in sync. 

 

Dean rests his forehead against Sam's and closes his eyes, pushing until he's balls deep inside of his baby brother. He pauses, feeling Sam's pulse around his cock. The soft tightness is addicting and he hasn't even begun in earnest. He can't wait to grow familiar with this.

 

He fucks Sam slowly at first, groaning low in his throat and the slip and slide friction. Sam's fingers curl into Dean's skin, dragging down his back. The slight pain of the scratch only adds to the experience, and Dean moves faster, hips moving in a wave. 

 

He kisses Sam and loses himself in the electric feeling. His hips move by pure instinct, seeking pleasure. Sam's body moves with him, pushing up to meet Dean's every thrust. Dean moves with a little more urgency, a little more roughness, and Sam cries out, his entire body jerking. 

 

"Right there, right there, more," Sam pants into Dean's mouth, and Dean obeys. He moves faster, fucking harder, angling to hit Sam's prostate dead on with each thrust. Sam gasps and makes choked-off little cries. He's a constant source of noise, growing louder and louder. 

 

Dean lets loose, fucking with abandon, pushing deep inside of Sam and pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The wet slap of flesh on flesh fills the room. Sam's a fucking screamer, yelling out hoarsely as Dean gets him closer and closer to climaxing.

 

Dean reaches down between their sweat-slick bodies and curls a fist around Sam's leaking cock. That's all it takes for Sam to start sobbing, fucking himself onto Dean's cock just as much as Dean's fucking down into him. Sam's dick pulses in Dean's hand and Sam comes all over his own chest, ragged moans and sobs tapering off as he spills over Dean's fist. 

 

"Oh, fuck," Dean grunts, slamming inside of Sam over and over, the bed squeaking. He can feel his own balls drawing up, that familiar heat and need building in the base of his spine. He only lasts a few more thrusts before he's grunting and swearing, pressing his face into Sam's neck and coming deep inside Sam's body, spunk filling up the condom. 

 

He collapses against Sam, still buried inside him. Sam's panting, hands running lazily up and down the bumps of Dean's spine. They take a couple minutes to find their way back to earth, back into their own bodies and minds. 

 

Once Dean can see clearly again, he gets up onto his elbows and looks down at Sam. Sam looks back up at him, eyes open to mere slits. He's a fucking mess. A fucked-out mess, more like. Dean pulls out as slowly as he can manage, knowing Sam's probably sensitive right now. He stands on wobbly, coltish legs, pulling off the used condom and tossing it into the garbage can. 

 

He falls face-first back into bed, sighing. The sound of a door slamming downstairs jolts him out of his post-orgasm haze.

 

"That's Bobby," he murmurs, "we've gotta clean up, get decent."

 

He looks to Sam for a response to find Sam's eyes closed, mouth open, breaths even and slow. Dean fucked him to sleep. He grins wryly at that and can't feel mad at Sam. It's a compliment, really.

 

He gets up again, even as his body begs him to stay put and join Sam in the land of sleep, bodies warm together. He gets a washcloth and wipes the come off Sam's chest. He cleans Sam up, getting him a little less sweaty. He puts a pair of boxers on Sam and pulls the sheets up over his body. He stands at Sam's bedside, just looking.

 

There is not a single thing in the universe Dean wants more than to hold Sam close to his chest and fall asleep breathing the same air as him, but there's always the chance Bobby will wake them up with some question or urgent news, and the sight of them together with naked shoulders and mussed hair can only ever mean one thing.

 

It kinda really fucking sucks. He lands a closed-mouth kiss on Sam's lax lips and gets into a pair of pajamas. He climbs into the other bed and turns on his side to face Sam. 

 

He closes his eyes and his mind is filled with images of Sam. 

 

He dreams of their night together, feeling perfectly content and secure.

 

\---

 

After that, things aren't different at all. Dean feels like they should be. Their relationship has changed in a groundbreaking way, forever. He thinks he should be seeing the world through different eyes or something, feeling like he's high twenty-four seven. Or maybe he should grow paranoid, sneaking extra glances at everyone around them, searching for any sign that people can see the sin in them.

 

But it isn't sin. And it isn't really any different. It's fucking awesome, yeah, Dean's probably thought that a billion and one times by now, but Sam is still his annoying little brother and they still fight over the remote. 

 

Which means they still get close to overstaying their welcome. By the end of the week, Bobby's grown tired of their shenanigans, even if he won't say it. He's got the patience of a saint and the kindliness of a perfect father, but even great men can only handle so much. Bobby's an introvert. He shares that with Sam. And right about now he's probably begging for some Johnny Walker, peace, and solitude. 

 

Sam gets it, too. The break is over. Real life must resume. People are still in danger. John Winchester is still out there somewhere. 

 

That morning, Dean had woken with Sam curled up against his chest. They took five minutes or so to breathe together and share a single, chaste kiss before the day began. They shared breakfast with Bobby, an almost silent affair with Bobby occupied with his thoughts. 

 

Dean spends a couple of hours fine tuning Baby and finishes up just in time for lunch. He heads inside with oil-greased hands to find Sam and Bobby leaning over the desk in the study, pointing at highlighted text on printed pages.

 

"What's all this?" Dean asks, watching their heads raise in unison. 

 

"Sam's done some of the legwork on one of the cases in the area," Bobby explains, gesturing at a crime scene photo of a woman with her eyes and ears missing. "Wouldn't've been able to figure it out without him."

 

Sam glows at the praise. "I've just looked at Babylonian mythology pretty recently," he says, looking sheepish, "so the pattern stood out to me."

 

Dean nods. He's on the same page. "So, that mean we're headin' out?" he asks Sam. "Where's that one?"

 

Sam nods. "Up in Aberdeen, less than a day's drive. You up for it?"

 

"Sure," Dean says. "Baby's been itchin' to get back on the road."

 

"Thanks for all the help, boys, really," Bobby says, tilting his head at them. "It was nice to have you to back here for awhile. Don't stay strangers, you hear? I ain't gonna break my back shoveling that white shit day in and day out. Christmas is comin’ up."

 

Sam's laugh is loud and genuine and Dean can't help but smile just by hearing it. The picture of an honest-to-god white Christmas with Sam and Bobby and maybe even Dad… it’s all Dean wants.

 

"We'll be back for Christmas," Sam says, reaching out to pat Bobby on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Bobby."

 

Bobby leans out of his grasp, straightening his cap to hide his own smile. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "I'm thinkin' it's time for lunch."

 

"Yes, please," Dean says, slapping his stomach. "Dean's craving pork."

 

Sam rolls his eyes at him, sending him a mild bitch face. He brushes past Dean, their hands briefly meeting, fingers intertwined for the briefest of seconds. Bobby and Sam carry on chatting about gruesome murder details as they prepare food together. Dean can only watch, taking a snapshot with his mind and tucking it away for safekeeping.

 

Only the littlest of aches still remains, and it's a familiar one: the picture is almost perfect, but Dean would kill to see Sam grin like that at their father, to see them work together on something, bond and shit. Still, it doesn't hurt too badly. Dean feels deep in his heart that the moment will come. They only have to chase it, across state borders and through mountain peaks.

 

\---

 

The trip to Aberdeen is filled with music and conversation. The snow-capped hills winding through South Dakota are yet another version of home for Dean. The road winds through pines and farms, long, spanning spaces filled with nothing but nature. The Impala eats up the miles with hunger, eager to make her way across the country.

 

"Hey," Dean says, catching Sam's attention. "Two of the victims lived in the same neighborhood, maybe it'd be a good idea to start there or something. Become neighbors."

 

Sam's mouth twitches, dimples barely peeking out before he restrains himself. "You in a two story house in a suburban neighborhood?" he asks dubiously. "Now that I'd like to see."

 

"Hey, it could be funny," Dean shrugs. "I bet they've never even interacted with a gay couple before."

 

Sam doesn't respond immediately. Several beats of silence pass. Dean begins to think he's fucked up, maybe just a little, his fingers beginning to sweat against the steering wheel. He sneaks a look at Sam to find him smiling down at the case file in his lap, fondness possessing all of his features. 

 

"I think it'd be nice," Sam finally says, his hand finding Dean's knee. "We already share the same last name. Easy cover."

 

"I already call you partner all the time," Dean adds. "Maybe we should make a habit of this."

 

He looks away from the road.  _ I love you, _ he'd just said, he continues to say with his eyes.

 

"Maybe we should," Sam agrees.  _ I love you. I love you. I love you. _

 

And hey, you know what? Dean believes him.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Whooo, this got way out of hand :) I just kept writing and writing but I think I like how it turned out, and I hope you guys do, too <3
> 
> Comments welcome, thank you so much for reading this fic, it means a lot.
> 
> ~Coyote


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